Thursday, August 4, 2011
When I was little, I created a construction paper and masking tape mailbox which hung on my bedroom door and into which my indulgent mother occasionally put notes, junk mail, and the rare but ever exciting card into.
In college, I checked my little box every time I went through the commons, which as the building also held things like the cafeteria and snack bar this ended up being a minimum of two or three times a day.
When I was living in my little condo in Iowa and had a post office box I checked it every time I was driving home, and then would get irate if Peter had collected the mail while I was at work.
Even when we were living in NY I would brave rain and snow once or twice a day to stick my head out enough to see into the mail box tied to the front steps rail with leftover Christmas ribbon.
(Mailbox explanation: So the original house door had a mail slot in it but then we put a new front door which didn't come with a mail slot and Peter was deployed so I totally had to figure out how to put in a mailbox all by myself and it was the end of November and Christmas ribbon seemed like a great "right now" fix which lasted for the next year+ we lived there. Because my Christmas ribboning skills are AWESOME.)
And now... well, now I don't check the mail. Now the only mail that ever comes for me is the student loan statements and credit card bills. Now I sigh and grudgingly collecting the stack that appears for me before tossing it somewhere to open later. Now I wish I still had the enthusiasm to put up a construction paper mailbox on my door with the eternal hope for something exciting to arrive.
Now I am an adult. And it kinda sucks.