You've got mail

I have learned that retrieving one's mail from the mailbox can sometimes be an emotional experience. The year was 1987, and NBC had just taken Remington Steele off the air. I wrote them a letter to express my sheer horror over the disruption of my Tuesday nights, and they wrote me back. (Still haven't written my Congressman about cracking down on internet predators, but NBC knows when they've let me down. I have nothing if not priorities.) I stood still at the mailbox as I read that they were sorry to be the ones to tell me that the world did not in fact revolve around me. I was 17, so this came as a surprise. Very disappointing.

Disappointing, but not quite as horrifying as getting the letter from the IRS at the ripe age of 20, notifying me that I was being audited for the tax return filed after my tenure as a waitress. Note to self: next time you work as a waitress, keep very good track of your tips. Like somewhere other than a post-it note you left on your dresser. And next time, be sure you tell your mother how much you appreciate her getting you out of that mess. (How DID you get me out of that mess?)

Then there were the days when Cory and I had just begun dating. I went back to California for the summer, but he stayed at school to continue making out with other women just to be sure I was still the best kisser working. Before the days of email, cell phones, and text messaging and somewhere in between pulling shenanigans with his roommates and shuttling workshop attendees up to Sundance, he found time to write me a few letters. Complete with references to the most recent MacGyver episodes and hidden messages written for me under the stamp, those letters were a highlight over those months.

The face of good mail days has changed over the past couple of decades. With the exception of December, a good mail day anymore might include a baby announcement, wedding invitation, pizza coupons or 20% off my total purchase at Bed Bath & Beyond. Or if I'm especially lucky, I might get an eye cream sample or a free diaper.

As for the bad mail days, I married an accountant so I only hear from the IRS when they are issuing us a refund. And the bills continue to arrive regularly, but I'm used to that. But one thing that I hadn't experienced until recently is that a piece of mail not only has the capacity to ruin my afternoon, but the ability to transport me back in time.
I got a letter, you see.
A blue postcard, actually.
From my high school.
They're telling me it's been quite a while since I left.
More like 20 years.
Twenty. Freakin'. Years.
And they want to have a party.
Looks like I'm invited, as are the other 527 of us with diplomas from 1988.
I consider that licking hot wax sounds less torturous.

The power that this little blue postcard has over me in this moment is a little surprising. I suddenly feel as if I'm standing in the hallway of my former high school wearing braces, leg warmers and blue mascara feeling awestruck by the moves of Michael Jackson who is, incidentally, still black at the time. The thing is, I don't like that girl very much and so I'd kind of like to keep her there. Let her stand there and be needy and insecure and captured in color in her yearbook on Nerd Day and leave her there in 1988. I have no desire to resurrect that girl and bring her to the Hard Rock Cafe in San Diego. I try to imagine if there are any circumstances under which traveling to this party might sound like fun. Maybe if Pierce were there. I wonder if he'd be interested? I should ask him. Maybe I'll write him a letter.