Soon, I fear, home delivery will be a thing of the past, and I don’t know if I can accept that. I’m still reeling from the termination of free airline food.
I write today with a heavy heart.
I am worried about the mail. Soon, I fear, home delivery will be a thing of the past, and I don’t know if I can accept that. I’m still reeling from the termination of free airline food. Call me someone with drippy taste buds, but I always got a kick out of whatever they chose to sling my way.
But no more mail, whoa. That’s more than a bummer; that’s a life-changer.
What would I do with all the feelings I have associated with mail?
For example, I don’t know about other people who stay at home or work from home or pretend to work from home when they are secretly taking marathon naps, but I light up like a glowworm when I hear the sound of a mail truck coming down the road.
“The mail is here!” I cry to myself. “I wonder what’s in store?”
Now, admittedly, I am usually disappointed with the lot, which consists mainly of bills, lame-o offers and nagging requests for donations, but I still get a thrill from sifting through what’s delivered.
What fuels my excitement is the element of surprise. Lately, for instance, I’ve been getting a slew of woodworking catalogs. Me! Not my husband or my son — but me! Well, well, I secretly cluck to myself as I peruse Woodworker’s Supply, someone out there clearly knows where the talent lies in this house.
What also excites me is the mailman himself. Wait a minute; let me rephrase that. What also excites me is the close contact with another human being. Wait, that didn’t sound right either. What I mean is, when you work from home all day and don’t see very many people and never get any phone calls or birds at your feeder or stray children seeking milk and cookies, you look forward to a friendly hello from your friendly mailman.
No more mail would just break my heart. You see, it reminds me of my childhood, when I used to receive letters from my grandma, trinkets from saved Kellogg’s box tops and treasured correspondence from the Tom Jones Fan Club — and I would miss that reminder.
I know what you’re thinking now. You’re thinking, “Anne, you are a dinosaur! Mail is a thing of the past and you need to move on. Forget the dopey catalogs, quit trying to make the mailman your BFF, embrace email, join Facebook, and feed your birds better seeds.”
I hear you, but I just can’t go there. I’ve got too many powerful emotions tied up with mail and wouldn’t know where to inflict them in its absence. OK?
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some power tools to order.
Anne Palumbo writes for Messenger Post Media in New York. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.