When I order something online, I'm much too cheap to pay for expedited shipping. Or express mail, or even priority. No, I just check the box for "delivered by snails wearing lead jackets" and I wait patiently. It's sort of fun to finally get a package that I've completely forgotten about, and probably already made the first credit card payment on. "Why, whatever could it be...?" is the best reaction ever when ripping open packing tape with one's eye teeth. (They don't call them canines for nothing.)
When I'm on the other end of things, it's another story. My Etsy shop has free shipping and a promise to ship within three business days. You wouldn't know that from my reaction to getting a sale notice. I spring into action. I race to get the quilt out of my sewing cabinet. I usually give it a final wash, dry and a once over, looking for stray threads. I pack it carefully and tuck the gift tag into the box. Then it's time to weigh it, make up the shipping label and slap that on with packing tape that fights me like a crazed wolf. That's just in the first half hour of the sale's notice.
Then comes the dash to the post office. The timing of the trip to the post office is in direct correlation to the latest incoming precipitation event. Yes, this is drought-striken California, but when I have a quilt to mail, it is guaranteed there will be a monsoon or a typhoon or the Pineapple Express or the Siberian Express or an Atmospheric River, or some other catchy named event made up by weathercasters sick of blue skies.
When Autumn Rose sold, my client specifically said "Take your time. No rush. Don't hurry." But I had boxes to box, tape to tape, labels to label, and this quilt went out in one of the downpours of "El Niño-ary" with wiper blades wiping and puddles puddling. And smack dab into Winter Storm Jonas. I should have gone with Parcel Post.