As a kid, I would sprint to the mailbox, whip open the lid with the hook, and pass the pile of envelopes stuffed inside off to my mom.
“There is nothing in this pile for you,” she said to me mail delivery after mail delivery for years.
Sometimes, I proved her wrong, though. The credit union would send me five kids bucks during my birthday month, and my dads relatives across the nation often wrote cards with real dollar bills enclosed.
Outside of November, every year, I would hit a major dry spell. It was stupid. Yet, despite not writing letters to other people or paying a dime for shelter, I could not understand why more mail was not be addressed to me.
My attitude toward those sealed envelopes did not change as a teenager. It was hard to ignore the metal container I parked next to that protruded to the curb and was painted to match the bright colored front door.
“You do not want mail.” my mom said continuously.
But the mail was awesome. Opening an envelope made a regular day go from a not regular day for two minutes.
Eventually I changed my approach to the mailbox. I opened the lid a little less aggressively, flipped through the letters like index cards, and stuffed the mail back inside the mailbox if none of the letters were addressed to me.
After being told so many times not to worry about the f*cking box, it seemed to be one of those chores, unlike unloading the dishwasher, laundry, and cleaning toilets, that was no longer my responsibility.
Looking back as an adult who understands what it is like to have my name printed repeatedly in a nice format, I understand why my parents did not want me to grab the delivery – It was a disappointment.
The only mail I recall being excited for in high school arrived when the mailbox was frosted shut. The Victoria Secret magazine models showcasing mix and match bikinis lay cold inside. As excited as I was to see something relevant, in retrospect looking at the slick pages of thin women did nothing but generate body dysmorphia as I dumped more milk into my cereal bowl and thought everything about my 16-year-old self would be better with double D’s.
Maybe I can blame breakfast with unrealistic body expectations for my current feelings toward mail.
As an adult, I hate mail. Everything is not only addressed to Margret Stolfa at my apartment, but now my parents get a slew of letters in my name I collect every time I stop by their home.
Even though it’s a short walk to my community mail space, I have no interest in using the tiny key. Every time I open up that little cube it’s stuffed with crap, like bills. The other day, there was something about Jury Duty, which was different, but everything else was medical, something with my student loans, refinancing, and about my retirement fund.
I avoid that adult reminder box like a plague. Sometimes, I see some decent coupons, but then I have a flashback to my grandmother’s home and toss the deals.
Physical mail feels like a waste because I manage my banking on my phone and messages through text.
But every once in a while, one of my best friends will mail me an uplifting note. I will remember how much I loved proving my mom wrong as a kid, and my inner child will smile for two minutes as I consider going to the mailbox more often.