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A Mail Box

Some things in life are perfectly reason-less to have. Some things are definitely must-haves.

And then there are things that fall in between.

Living in America forces citizens to have a mailing address. Thus necessitating a mail box or a P.O. Box. As a citizen who grew up having a mailbox at the end of her driveway that she could walk to each day, I merely assumed that I would have one of America’s greatest inventions (as I see it as such) as an adult.

Wrong. Unfortunately, where we live, my husband believes mailboxes are pointless investments as it’s been his experience that they only get knocked down.

Knowing this doesn’t change the fact that I want a mailbox. A P.O. Box has served us fine except for the aggravation of having to leave our property to go and retrieve any mail (and the further aggravation upon arriving at said box and not having ANY mail at all to get if nothing is in our box). But for all intents and purposes, the P.O. Box is fine. It just doesn’t cover all I want.

Even on the days I was sicker than sick, going to get the mail was a welcome reprieve short bit of exercise. It gave me a purpose. A reason to get up and at least get out for a little bit in the sunshine without requiring great amounts of energy. It was also a privilege of mine to go and get the mail. Almost as special as being allowed to drive, being allowed to get the mail was the next best thing.

I felt so alive. So grown up. So…purposeful. There I was. Setting out on the journey to what could be almost anything imaginable. Fake Disney tickets trying to bribe us to come there. Checks. Cards. Gifts. Pictures. Scholarships. At the end of my walk, anything could be waiting. Crisp Winter air. Crunching over pebbles slurping a Push-Up during the harsh heat of Summer. Fall with its leaves swirling around. I'd walk through it all to get to that dome-shaped box.

And yes, I realize (you haters of mailboxes) that “anything” now waits at the end of the drive. But it’s the idea. I have to drive. No exercise. Go into a public place with many germs. Hope to heavens I remembered my key, find our box, also  hope to heaven that I haven’t made the trip for nothing, etc. And then, if there’s bad news waiting in the box, I still have to make the drive home. Or on the other hand, if it’s the best news of my life, I can’t run back to our house as quickly as I can to share the news.

A P.O. Box is a chore. Not a privilege.

I know my husband’s right. We shouldn’t get a mailbox only to have it torn down. They’re expensive. And I’d be super upset if it were to be knocked down.

But it doesn’t mean I don’t want one perhaps only for the memories it brings, the exercise required, and the undeniable joy I get from walking to and from it each day.

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