It is disheartening and a little sad to go to my brand new mailbox in front of my brand new house, open the little green door and find it is absolutely empty. I know that not everyone enjoys junk mail (as evidenced by the number of responses I received when I wrote I Love Junk Mail), but there is something strangely comforting about having a least someone put stuff in your new mailbox – to acknowledge that you exist in your new space.
I admit that I love getting things in my mailbox – I have always looked forward to the mailman (or mailwoman or is it mailperson? I never get it right anymore!) stopping in front of the house and putting a pile of stuff into my mailbox. It doesn’t have to be important stuff – in fact, I prefer if isn’t things like bills and official notices – but I will take what I can get!
When the mail truck goes by my box and doesn’t even stop – well, that’s just plain sad – no one wanted to send me anything? Not even an ad telling me about the newest daycare opening (not that I really care since all my children are grown up!) – or a new dance school (again, don’t really care since no children and they wouldn’t want me in a dance class – I have a hard time chewing gum and walking at the same time!). It’s not the item in the mailbox, it’s just the idea that someone (or something) knows that I have a mailbox that is hungry and needs fed – that I exist on someone’s radar screen.
Descartes wrote “I think, therefore I am.” – but sometimes all of us need a little reinforcement by getting something in our mailbox addressed to us – just like when Ron Howard sings in The Music Man that the Wells Fargo wagon is bringing “somethin’ special just for me”. It doesn’t have to apply to our life or even be something we can use – it’s just the fact that we exist in someone’s universe.