A First

Each of us have a few situations that we hope to avoid for the entirety of our life. Personal aspirations to feel that satisfying ability to state, with pure truth and conviction and just a touch of arrogance, as we tuck our thumbs under our suspenders while puffing out our chest with pride: "Nope. Never happened to me, no sir." Well, today I actually met "never''.

I always experience a tiny shred of dread every time I pull down on the handle of a free-standing mail box. The gaping mouth of this metal contraption appears to be very greedy and is always happy to digest whatever your hand is holding. Once you let go your contribution falls into the black hole of the interior. Irretrievable and unattainable.

You must make absolutely sure that your envelopes are properly addressed and tightly sealed and the postage secure. For at the second you unhand your stack is the moment you relinquish all control. Thus the conundrum: Knowing you must thrust your mail inside, must let go feeling very much in command as you set your postings free to flutter down to nest at the bottom and walk away accepting you have fulfilled your due diligence.

But what if you realize, as you are closing that trapdoor, that the check to pay your son's credit card bill (which you were subsequently going to drop off at the bank located just a few blocks away and was the reason why you decided to save a stamp in the first place) was on the bottom of that stack previously lying on your car seat just moments ago? Your stomach gets a little tight. You close your eyes and curse your stupidity having to face that you have just committed one of those "never-want-to" errors. Rats. Double Rats.

All I can say is that in the midst of my angst I recognized the blessing. I had decided to go to our community post office to utilize the boxes I could drive by for two reasons. First was my desire to make sure these would be postmarked with today's date and, secondly, was the ease of staying in my car. I was so thankful I had not chosen a box located in my residential neighborhood. What chance for help would I have? Slim if any. So like the little boy that throws the baseball through his neighbor's window and must confess and garner forgiveness, I found myself walking inside the building to expose my blunder and ask for help. The gentlemen were very kind. No jokes made. No laughter heard. The check easily found. Gratitude shared.

I know I wasn't the first nor will I be the last. The fact is I just never wanted to "be".