"Wake up, sleepy head. You really should go now. Don't you have other packages to deliver?"
I yawned, rubbed sleep from my eyes with a thick, fat hand, and blinked around at my surroundings. I knew something was wrong, but couldn't quite put my finger on it. I yawned again, and tried to get out of the chair. I couldn't quite make it, and the woman had to help me up. She adjusted the chair so it leaned forward, and she helped me maneuver my body till I had both feet planted firmly on the ground. There was something wrong about this, but I couldn't be bothered with it now. She was right, after all. I do have a van full of packages to deliver.
She walked and I waddled (having to squeeze to get through a narrow door) along behind her. She handed me my clipboard, and I saw that the arm that I extended to take it from her was...different some how. It was thick and heavily swaddled in fat, just as it had always been. My drooping, upper-arm swung with accumulated blubber, as always. But...something was wrong! It wasn't the skin color, because I was just as black as midnight in a coal mine. Maybe it was my nails? I could remember that she'd done my nails while I was here, and they looked just as I'd ordered. The color was 'Ebony Night' (my favorite shade of Purple, but like Loretta wore back at the dispatch office) and they were an inch long and perfectly manicured just as promised. But...
"Here's your clip board, Miss. Have a nice day."
I took the clip board (everything was signed) and said "Thanks, dawlin'. Ah betta gets back on th' road, if ah's gonna gets mah deliveries done befo' it get dark."
Something about what I just said made me wonder. I'd always spoken this way, but it sounded so...strange.
I struggled into my van (these seats weren't designed to hold a woman of such substance), and eventually positioned my gargantuan buttocks so I could sit comfortably. I adjusted the rearview mirror,saw my face (something wrong), and noticed my hair was graying at the temples. It made sense, as I was over 40, but part of me argued that I should be 20 years younger! Wasn't I just out of Collage, and only taking this UPS job to make ends meat for a bit? That sounded right...but it couldn't be. I was a 43 year old black woman, not a 23 year old white boy!
At least...that sounded right.
But it was something I'd have to worry about later. I started my van and drove down the alley and onto the street. After all, I had a lot of work to do before I could get back to the dispatch office and meet my girlfriend for dinner.
Wait. Did I have a girlfriend? Why would a big, black lady like myself be dating a skinny,little white girl twenty years her junior? It was all so confusing...