My paternal grandmother was of solid Norwegian stock, raised in Nebraska during the Great Depression, and generally imbued with the stoic traditions of both the Arctic north and the American midwest. The biggest rise she could manage, when confronted with the conundrums and catastrophes life offers, was a melancholic, “Oh, Lordy.” That was it, and that was all, the sum-total manifestation of her response to profound disturbances in the force. There was only one exception, which was reserved for fat people, which somehow managed to draw a particularly unabated ire from within her otherwise stolid Lutheran demeanor. She saw in the increasingly gluttonous American something vile, and reprehensible, something beyond the pale, because to a woman who fixed things, rather than throw them out, they were both irresponsible and lazy.
Jean Lucille, may she rest in peace, would not have been a fan of Lizzo, the humpbacked pop star lately accused of “fat shaming” her also very fat backup dancers.
So this morning, after checking in with our local post office on a package we were told has been delivered to us, which has not been delivered to us, and which now exists somewhere in an expanding and ethereal universe of tracking numbers and carriers and undermanned stock rooms and, as it turns out, a missing postmaster, I was reminded of my grandmother’s comportment, even as I struggled to emulate it in the face of absurdity.
Because something is severely broken in America, and I’m not sure we can fix it.
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