Love Of Mail


There are only two things in life for which we constantly hope and dream, and then, even after our illusions have been continually squished like sidewalk worms after a spring rain – we begin again – as if it were our first time.


One is Love*. The other is Mail.

“Mail come?”

“Did you get the mail?”

“Mail in?”

“Mail here yet?”

After years of disappointments – for six days a week, we still hope there will be some significant prize in our Cracker Jack mail boxes – even though Reality is doubled over in laughter at our stupid dreams.

How many times in our lives have we received anything that bears even a remote resemblance to that for which we hope? What do we usually get – day after day after day?


Bills. Requests for money to help homeless children, abused children, religious causes in Africa and the rest of the world, cancer research, childrens’ hospitals, educational institutions, landmark preservations. More bills. Money for whale savers, stray cat and dog advocates, tree huggers, battered women, wildlife protectors, funding for this old disease or that new treatment and baby seals.

Oh, and the advertisements. Incredible rates on pre-approved cards and once-in-a-life-time book offers. Prices on subscriptions where the cost of each magazine is less than the damn postage to mail it. Reminders of last chances to renew this or restart that and even important looking letters from corporate officers saying how much they miss us.

And how lonely do you have to be to open anything addressed, “To our friends at………”, “Current Resident of……” or “Box holder”? Get a friggin’ cat, wouldja?!


Here’s a test. The next time you’re SUPPOSED to get the mail – don’t. Put it off a bit. Don’t worry about tragedy – emergencies come over the phone. But let’s face it. You’re a postal junkie. Try to ride out the craving. You know one letter’s too many and a hundred letters aren’t enough.

Just ignore the damn mail for a day or two – really. Three days is kind of pushing it. If you’re not on vacation – and you don’t get your mail for three days – Postmen and Postwomen are trained to “tell someone.”

And then “someone” will come sniffing under your door. They’ll think you’re either in a coma . . . or dead.

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