They like me; they really like me

Like a giddy school girl, I still get a jolt out of finding a hand-written genuine piece of mail in my mailbox.

And by mailbox I refer to the metal, rectangular object affixed either to the side of your house or to a pole at the foot of your driveway that’s generally overflowing with credit card offers, supermarket fliers and other crap.

In this day of Internets and wireless wonders, the art of letter writing, of pen pals (remember that?) and the sending of postcards has become passe. But not for me.

I’m important. I have a collection of paper greetings on the mantel, wishing me a happy birthday. I have the card from my chiropractor, offering me one free adjustment within 12 business days of my big day. I have the card from the local harware store, with a $5 coupon attached. “Hurry in and save on rakes and leaf bags.”

I have a greeting from the health insurance company I dropped a year ago. They still care, but not that much.

I have a card from the guy who rolled over my 401-K. No money inserted in his card, though.

I feel so damn special right now. 

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