Sunday, September 27, 2015

The Postman always Rings Twice

Like most people, we still get snail mail mail delivered to our home by the US Postal Service. And in all honesty, I will say our mailman is the best. For instance, when we have a package too large for our box, which is not unusual, he will come to the side door and put the box and the rest of the mail inside the sun room so it will not be effected by the weather. He well deserves the homemade cookies we give him at Christmas.  But I digress.

Each day my DH gets the mail, brings it in and we have a "sorting of the mail" ritual. No, this is not some formal rite that we all must attend. However, over the years I have noticed the mail is handled the same way.

All the envelopes and packages are divided into piles according to whom they are addressed. Unless I am expecting something, my pile can wait until my next trip to the kitchen. However I will be reminded that my mail is on the table, as if there is some special card or epistle awaiting me.

Alas my pile is fairly predictable. There will be the bills, which I put on my desk, perhaps a notice for magazine subscription or card from my broker (he should know that is a lost cause unless he has found some money for me) which go in the trash, every once in awhile a personal note from a friend, maybe an invitation to an event, but every day over half the mail I receive are solicitations for credit cards from banks, airlines, credit card companies, alumni organizations, etc. which immediately are put through the shredder. 

These "love letters" of promised travel, adventure, couture, and the like are cloaked with pages of small print (literally). They are like sirens calling, "Come hither, enjoy life for today, do not worry about tomorrow." One must look in the shadows of the middle paragraphs for scary words like "escalated interest" and "monthly payments."  

Perhaps I am the curmudgeon, the doubter, the naysayer. So be it, and if so, "I wish you bluebirds in the spring. . . . And in July, lemonade."

For me these are just love letters in the sand, just waiting for the next wave.

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