Can Trees Cry?
I think menopause may be stalking me……and I blame it on my mailbox.
Just for the sake of clarification menopause didn’t send me out of those “Important: Time Sensitive Material Enclosed” letters. Menopause is more stealth than that. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Nevertheless, I believe my mailbox has become a harbinger of doom.
You’re probably envisioning some sturdy, stone structure that looms over the street like a postal behemoth but my mailbox is quite austere. It is small and metal and came from the hardware store. My dad put it up while he was visiting last year after my previous one was taken out during a mailbox hate crime. I suspect that the perpetrator of this hate crime was a peri-menopausal woman such as myself. In fact, I’m quite sure of it.
Despite the emotional tension of election day, I was in quite a good mood. Pretty much all was right with my world. My dogs were happy to have finally been taken on a good run (they have learned that oh-so-human art of guilt infliction which is another story), the ibuprofen I had taken had worked its magic on my gym-weary, middle-aged muscles and I was looking forward to sitting around and watching the election results. But my good mood bubble exploded into a spray of prism-y goop when I opened that innocent looking metal door. Holy shit! You’ve got to be kidding me!
After I wrestled twenty pounds of paper into the kitchen, I flew into a rage. Nothing, I repeat nothing, in that stack of wasted natural resources was important. Not one utility bill, not one thank you card, not….one….thing. I thought I might spontaneously combust. My mind went to a really crazy place. I wondered to myself, if I DO burst into flames, how will I simultaneously A) put my dogs outside so they don’t bite the paramedics B) open my driveway gate for the rescue vehicles and C) dial 911? But… I took a deep breath and cooled my inner inferno… and a strange calm washed over me. I began calling every single killer of trees that had sent me something I had not asked for. First on the list: my credit card company who sends out an unsolicited magazine every month that weights 8 pounds (I got TWO). They told me it was a “free benefit” with my super special, purple-platinum-chartreuse card and I was required to TELL them I didn’t want it. “Didn’t you read the fine print on the 400 page disclosure we sent you with your card?” the representative asked in a chipper your-call-may-be-recorded-for-quality-purposes voice. Uh….. no.
Even though I know I can recycle this useless crap, it breaks my heart to know that a tree gave its life for naught.
And all this waste is making me cry! Damn it! What the hell is wrong with me?
Okay, that’s it for now. I’m off to swallow some black cohosh and eat a yam.