At another branch, I queued up with three other customers. Our instructions were provided by a scribbled sign beside the clerk. "Be courteous! Don't approach Counter until I say." After handing change to a gentleman, she shouted, "What are all these people doing in my lobby?"
The Post Office Paradox is Uncle Al. He worked there for decades; even though it's well documented he's the most-loved man on planet earth. He's retired now, but If you asked him for a stamp, Uncle Al would give you his last one, make you popcorn, sit you in his recliner with your favorite DVD (he'd know which one), and drive your letter to the addressee.
Yesterday, I trudged into another USPS branch, schlepping my bundle of postal worker prejudice. I stopped short––the clerk behind the counter was somebody's Uncle Al. So I smiled at the clerk and he offered me "Happy holidays" with my stamps.
(Read another post about my prejudice.)