At the Mailbox

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Yesterday I pulled up to the mailbox at the same time as a perennially grumpy neighbor of mine. We each looked into our boxes, and mine was empty.

"Nothin' for me," I said.

"No news is good news," said he.

And you know? Despite my long-held tradition of opening the mailbox with an eager anticipation that seldom correlated with actual experience, I finally have to admit he's right.  Seeing that box empty was a blessing.

I've always been childlike when it comes to mail, always entertained the possibility that the day's delivery might include a handwritten letter from an old friend, or an unexpected gift, or some other sort of positive feedback from the universe. But my mail these days consists almost entirely of stuff I'd gladly do without.

Beyond the usual bills and junk that none of us can avoid, my haul of late has taken on a creepy personality. This week alone there was an intimidating form to complete for the State Controller's office, a reminder to schedule a colonoscopy, a catalog of sensible shoes and mobility aids, and a card about inexpensive cremation services. As a special bonus, a glossy booklet addressing me by my first name informed me I have guaranteed eligibility for affordable life insurance, the benefits of which can be used by my family to help pay for last debts, medical expenses, my funeral, or anything my loved ones wish.

The picture above is from the life insurance brochure, but ladies like this smile at me from most of the catalogs and flyers in my mailbox. They are apparently my people: white-haired white women with good dentures and surprisingly youthful skin who are partial to pastel cardigans and slip-on shoes with ergonomic midsoles for arch support and all-day cushioning. They travel the world in frumpy garments carrying ultra-secure purses that feature slash-proof stainless steel mesh, cut-proof cable in the straps, locking zippers, and even protective credit card slots to thwart cyber thieves seeking to scan their information. They're doing well, these women. They've bought insurance and done estate planning and they can use their AARP discount on cruises. They garden and play tennis and take their calcium supplements. Handsome gray-haired men look at them fondly. I suppose there are worse fates, but I cringe.

And that's not all. In any given week the mail also includes at least three credit card invitations...for my daughter. (Luring people in their 20s into the rollicking ride of high-interest debt is apparently still good business.) Meanwhile, I seem to be on the mailing list of every left-leaning candidate or cause in existence, and scores of charitable organizations that I wish would put more dollars into service and fewer on mailing letters and calendars and stickers to those of us who have already given. Then there are the forms and reports that constantly dribble in regarding my elderly mother's situation. Talk about depressing.

So the mail? Basically it all implies paperwork, guilt, parting with funds, some dreary obligation, resigning oneself to dowdy obsolescence, or contemplation of not-too-distant death. 

I hereby renounce my illusions. My cranky neighbor nailed it: no news is good news.