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
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.