Good Morning Coddled Eggs,
Like most people, I have a mailbox. Do you remember the mailbox when it was a good thing? Not too many years ago the mailbox was a friend and always a source of surprise and anticipation. If you’re within a decade of my age you’ll no doubt remember sending in cereal box tops to have them send a plastic kite or airplane that looked so cool on the back of the box. I’d patiently wait for weeks running daily to meet the mailman looking for my glider. Postcards, money and contest results were magically delivered to my house!
But like Santa Claus that perception began to wean as I got older. I remember the first report card that wasn’t given to me to take home because it had been mailed. This was not good. For the first time in my life, I viewed the mailbox with dread as it morphed overnight into the bearer of unpleasant things.
Bills and junk mail seemed to dominate; relegating my former friend to a receptacle of trepidation! On my 19th rotation, the most disturbing news was delivered–the congratulatory greeting from my draft board ordering me to report for Vietnam. For the two or three of you still reading this ‘Silly Putty’ and too young to remember, at the peak of jungle combat 200 body-bags a week were shipped home to grieving parents and friends. This wasn’t my idea of good news.
As I continued along life’s rich pageant I got married, finished school, and went headlong into raising a family. I’d become so depressed by the content found in the pit of doom I delegated this ordeal to my ex-wife. She was better equipped to deal with this kind of torture than I am, so she took on the odious task of checking the mail. But since the divorce and left to my own devices, I’ve returned to the adversarial relationship with the mailbox.
I feel sorry for the millions of trees that have sacrificed themselves so that my repository of piffle is filled with shopper coupons, value paks, lawn service ads, and shut off notices. It seems to me this would be a solid project for an environmental zealot looking for a cause. Perhaps JOE could bring it up at the next PETA meeting because destroying the habitat for countless creatures must be of some concern? In fact, I’m reasonably sure there’d be money in it for the person that finds a way to stop this waste because 95% of it goes into the country’s landfills.
I’d pay to love my mailbox again!
I was contemplating going to the post office with the intention of filling out a change of address form sending the copious bundles of horseshit to a fictitious address in Los Angeles when a miracle happened. Begrudgingly I plodded to my container of misery to fetch and subsequently toss the contents when I noticed something different.
Sorting through it I found a pink envelope addressed to me as opposed to occupant. It smelled of perfume and was handwritten. Quickly dumping the 2lbs of junk I took the letter to my apartment to get comfortable and relish my good fortune. I didn’t immediately recognize the name and return address but couldn’t wait to read it. It was from Judy Whitmore! She’d found me on Facebook and got my address. Judy was a sophomore when I was a senior in high school and had a torrid lust-filled relationship soon after returning from my hellish experience in the Army. I went away to college and within a few months we quit the long distance affair going our separate ways. She’s just ended her second marriage a couple years ago and found me as part of some kind of scavenger hunt. Her letter was filled with very naughty and suggestive things.
If her pics accurately portray what she looks like today, then I’m willing to forgive the mailbox and give it a second chance.