If you saw me the other night duck into a pot shop, don’t go worrying your little noggin about it! I was just … mailing a letter. Yeah. A letter.

You see, I needed to send a Christmas/birthday gift card to my daughter’s boyfriend/significant other/partner/whatever — I’ll call him … “Dane.”

What I should’ve done is “send” money through social media. It’s so strange you can do that these days. But since the post office can’t even get its own stamps on time, I guess technology had to take over at some point.

Yes, “can’t get its own stamps.” I went to the post office at Christmas and asked for holiday stamps. They’d sold out. OK. And when would they get new ones, I asked, as it was still two weeks until Christmas.

Postal Official: “Um … we’re not … getting any more.”

Me: “Wha —?”

Postal official: “Even if we ordered them, they wouldn’t arrive in time.”

Me: “Wha —? You’ve got two weeks! And hey! Can’t you — the POST OFFICE — MAIL them to yourSELVES?” Sometimes I just kill myself. I think he wanted to, too.

Well, I guess that idea wasn’t feasible; they never did get any more.

Later, I went there to buy stamps — stamps of any sort. The same nice man showed me some solar eclipse stamps. They caught my eye because, at a distance, they looked like black paintball explosions on a sheet of paper. I couldn’t stop staring at them.

I was walking home with my new find, thinking the solar eclipse was so … August, when I looked at them again. My thumb had been resting on one of the paintball splatters. And when I pulled my thumb away, the black of the eclipse was gone and the daylit moon was underneath. Slowly, the black covered the moon back up.

Well, how cool is THAT!? It’s 49 cents — well, 50 cents, now — of money well-spent!

I put one of these cool moon shot stamps on the card to send to my daughter’s … person — Dane — and set off to the post office. Halfway there, it hit me: I don’t think I have enough stamps on this card.

I balanced the card on my palm. Bounce, bounce. From my long days in the mail room at a bank and long nights at a pizza joint, I know an ounce. And this letter felt a little … heavy.

Rambling thoughts: Do I go home, put another stamp on it? How much are stamps these days anyway? “Forever” doesn’t tell me anything. Will a postcard stamp be enough?

I juggled the letter again. Yeah … heavy.

Do I send it? How long will it take to return to me, “Postage Due”? I’d probably get it back in October. Should I risk it at all, with a gift card inside?

Mail it? Play it safe?

And then it dawned on me, as I approached the bright white and green lights of Top Shelf Cannabis. THEY weigh stuff! They weigh stuff, like every day! If this weighs less than an ounce, I can mail it tonight! Hmmm …

I peered around the corner — why is this such a busy intersection? — waited until the light was red, no cars coming, no spies with cameras in the bushes, and DARTED into the pot shop.

Interesting places, if you’ve never visited one. I felt so … illegal.

Anyway, the nice guy behind the counter agreed that they weigh stuff — hourly, in fact. Sometimes, by the minute! He didn’t even think it was an odd request to see if my letter weighed more than an ounce.

He dusted off the scale, gently set my letter on it — 40.7 g. I smiled. And that means …?

I stood there like the arithmophobe I am. Smiled. He did the math.

Yup. It’s a little over. By 12 grams.

However much that is. I smiled. Probably the weight of that paintball splatter on the stamp.

I thanked the guy and left, furtively, and went home to get another stamp and sent the card on its way.

And now I know where to weigh my mail!

I bet they can’t wait to see me next Christmas.