So I'm offering this simple phrase, to kids from 1 to 92…
How the heck do I open my mailbox? I know, more a question than a phrase, but I think I've set a good age parameter. If you're in that age window could you come in and answer my question?
help…
me…
It started Monday when I went to check the mail. At least that's when it started for me; I'm not sure when it started for the box; it's not communicating with me. Sliding in the key, I begged it to open up; It wouldn't budge. When begging and pleading didn't work, I got violent. It was wrong, I know, but if I could just make the box understand, I only wanted to know what was going on inside. Why had it decided to lock me out?
Yesterday, I tried to catch the mailman as he rolled through. Maybe a third party could sort things out. I didn't see him. I waited, fingers pressed to my screen door, hoping to catch a glimpse, to see something, anything that would tell me what was going on with my mail.
Santa must be my mailman. He snuck through undetected, ate my cookies and left packages-- in my mailbox, which I can't get to, because my key doesn't work. So all those money filled cards you sent me, I still can't read them. Don't forget to leave the money in the account though. I'll cash them as soon as I can.
I thought about breaking into the box, but it with my luck somebody would misinterpret my actions and report it. It's a federal crime to break into my mailbox to read my mail—even if you're me.
"Hey Mom, send my gifts to the corrections facility in Lompoc…" I guess at least there, I'd get my mail.
Today is a new day. I walked out to coax my mailbox. It snubbed me. I'd hoped time would heal us. I don't know, the key looks good, it fits, it just doesn't turn. What did I do? Where did I go wrong? It's all the boxes fault! And it's the Holidays! It chose now, of all times, to go out on me! Please come back, box, I miss you!
Ok, so now I sound pathetic. I went back out to the driveway to grab the newspaper, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? It's that guy with the bag wearing an iPod with headgear.
"Wait! Oh wait, just a minute Mr. Postman!"
Pause. Yeah, I'll give you a moment to real from that really bad joke. Ready? Ok, back to our story:
"Yes, Robby?"
"Mr. Postman, MyMailbox won't open up. I've tried everything."
"Have you been a good boy?"
"I have! I have!"
"You know Robby, it may be broken. You may have to just let it go."
"What about what's inside, Mr. Postman?"
"Sometimes there's nothing you can do about that. Sometimes you shouldn't ask 'why' you should just say 'how interesting.'"
"Mr. Postman, what are we talking about? I just want my mail."
"Oh, I thought this was a divorce metaphor—try now."
I did. It opened! It was a Christmas Miracle! My box had clogged with a Swiss Colony care package. The meat and cheese blocked my key from turning, leaving me outside. Now things are good, and the mail flows again! I didn't get those cards you sent though. My net is ready to hold them, and it's looking like a meager catch. Don't forget the checks! My mail is working again!
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