I’ve gotten to know my postman. Being home during the day means I’m there to answer the door and exchange chit-chat. Sometimes about the weather, sometimes about my dogs who greet him with unfortunate stereotypical anger. Occasionally, I’ll pass him in the street and we wave or smile. How nice … in theory. Somehow, in every instance there is an awkwardness, a palpably tense energy of a high school play where someone is doing their best but keeps flubbing a line, standing off-mark or having their wig fall off.
Postman Pat (not his real name) visited my house once not to deliver mail but to borrow a doggy bag to clean up a large deposit left beside a nearby postbox. We stumbled through a mixture of disgusted remarks and jokes about how large the dog must have been before I slipped over running to the cupboard and shoved three bags into his hand. “I really only need one, Miss,” he said politely, so I reached out and our hands clumsily smooshed into a plasticky high-five. Another time, he delivered a lightweight package. “What is this?” I wondered aloud. “It feels like an empty wine bottle!” he replied, and we stood there chuckling at nothing. I then remembered the curse.
My life is filled with so many uncomfortable but not necessarily unpleasant interactions that a friend described me as “cursed”. You know the ones: hovering your debit card on top of a machine only to be told you need to hold it elsewhere, a mysterious specific location that is unique to each device. Realising there’s no universally accepted response for when you’re on the toilet and someone knocks on the door. Being the only person to slip over on a rainy day when people around you are moving quicker in more precarious footwear. Spluttering “Have a nice weekend!” on a Wednesday. Maybe you too have this curse.
The other day I ordered takeaway and got a call from the delivery driver who was lost. He apologised for not understanding me as he’s French and still learning English, so I dug deep into my year 9 French classes and attempted to navigate him with a series of “tourner à gauche” and “aller à droite” which helped nobody because I had no idea where he was. I walked down my street and saw a delivery man on a bike speaking on his phone so I called out “Salut! Salut!” waving my arms like a desperate survivor waving to an overhead plane. My French didn’t help but some children near him did, pointing out that a crazy lady was jumping and waving in his direction. Thankfully, it was the driver, and I said “thank you so much” – in English this time, but with a heavy French accent for reasons unknown. He received a heavy tip.
When I was younger, these moments would affect me excessively. I’d feel stupid and embarrassed, wondering what part of my brain is missing that makes other people seem to approach social situations with grace and ease. It felt adolescent to stress over something so minor. But over time I’ve realised these moments are what make us human and show us who we are: some of us are a bit awkward, and some of us are kind and understanding to those who are.
There is no curse. Anxiety maybe, but nothing sinister or significant. If I could go back in time I’d tell myself that being a human is weird and awkward and even the most composed people will tell a cinema employee “You too!” after they say “Enjoy the movie!” It’s better to embrace and laugh about it than ruminate over it. Taking myself less seriously is a wonderful gift of leaving my 20s long behind. I now look forward to the postman coming to my door, knowing I’ll put a foot wrong somehow. We may never nail that perfectly smooth social interaction I dream of – and that’s just fine with me. I’m not sure such a thing even exists.
• Deirdre Fidge is a writer and social worker who has written for ABC’s Get Krack!n, The Weekly with Charlie Pickering and the BBC. Her work has appeared in ABC News, SBS, the Sydney Morning Herald and Frankie magazine, among others.
