My mailbox and I go way back. Back to the days when I’d see the postman approaching my door and pray he’d have something in his hands for me. I’d sit on the foyer floor staring at the mailflap in the door that read MAIL, and my heart would flutter with excitement as that flap would slowly start to lift and cough up random bits of mail. I’d scurry to pick them up, sifting through them in the hopes that today would be the day I would receive something from someone living somewhere. But alas, I was so young, there was nothing. So my mom would let me open the junk mail, and it appeased my soul for a while.
As I grew older, my anticipation was slowly met with fulfillment. My existence was finally being acknowledged! Magazine subscriptions came first. You know the ones: Highlights,Tiger Beat, Discover, Omni. Then Seventeen and Glamour. Along with them came their bills for renewal. All right! More mail for me!
Out on my own, in college, I still received subscriptions and the bills that came with them, but I also started getting phone bills and credit card bills and junk mail just like my parents would get.
Okay, so now, my mail pile is starting to take over my school desk. My rose-colored glasses regarding my relationship with my mailbox were starting to clear. It was obvious we needed to have a little chat about personal space.
So I stood in front of it and we had ourselves a little talk. “You know,” I said, “it’s great to be acknowledged everyday. To turn the key, and open you up to find stuff waiting for me. You’re always so giving. But I think you’re overdoing it a bit. I love receiving your ‘gifts’, but I’m not that high-maintenance. So, you can stop now, okay?” I got no response. So I sighed, and hoped one day my mailbox would listen.
Years have passed, and not only has it not listened to a single plea I’ve made over the years, but our relationship has only gotten worse. It has given me more and more bills, some admittedly overdue, an endless stream of junk mail from all ends of the earth, birthday and anniversary cards, and occasional invitations to a celebration.
It’s gotten so bad, I’ve actually pretended to not have a mailbox, ignoring it for days on end, only to feel so guilty about it later. So then I’d go, and it would give me an earful, or rather an armful. I’d apologize profusely and promise to work on our relationship, but when I’d get the mail back to the house, my anger would rise yet again. Where do I put it all?I already have stacks and boxes and bags of mail. I start to think that my mailbox doesn’t really love me after all. That it’s trying to kill me. Really. It’s burying me alive!
So after reflecting long and hard about our tumultuous relationship over these many years, I’ve decided… I want a divorce! And I’m not asking for anything in the settlement. My mailbox can KEEP EVERYTHING!