My garage has been filled with a colorful bolt of obscenity on which I make my work clothes. Manual labor always gives me license to swear like a longshoreman, and I stock those warehouses full of blue cargo every single time. This is doubly so, when something goes awry. More often than not that’s the case. I’m a regular comedy of errors.
Here I was, minding my own business, cursing out an 11th hour glue failure when I stare out at my slightly ajar mailbox. That’s my postman’s way of telling me there’s mail delivered, because he’s too lazy to shut the lid properly and pull up the red flag. He’s a real peach. Peaches can be lazy, right?
The bulk of my mail over the past few years has been just that. Advertisements from the Hooterville pennysaver, car dealerships (go pound sand, Kia!), and continuing education programs all make their way to my trash bin. If they’re not advertisements, they’re bills. Of the two, I’d rather receive advertisements.
Today was a special occasion, as I found something that was neither ad nor bill. It was an actual piece of mail from someone else. Naturally, I stared at it for a few seconds to make sure it wasn’t one of those advertisements that look like regular mail. Nope, it was from someone I know.
The 4 x 6 envelope itself didn’t reveal as much as the return address. Two names cozily in balance with an “and, per se, and” knotting them together stared at me. It was a wedding invitation. There’s nothing inherently wrong with weddings. I have my own cheeky commentary regarding a person’s third, fourth, or fifth marriage but not as an institution. In fact, I don’t mind if gay couples want to share in this institution. Unfortunately, most of Ohio was not happy about that Supreme Court decision and can’t share my sentiments.
Seems like just about everyone’s married, moved, or both these days. It has occurred to me that this area has some weird diaspora flavor to it. I can count the people I’ve known since childhood that are still here on one hand. The ones that left were replaced by people from smaller towns that think a population of 40,000 is “big.” It’s all about perspective, but I digress.
I look at the RSVP card: Nate & Guest.
*sigh*
… f-f-f-fuck.
Corvidae in the Fields 
Knowing 5 friends from your childhood is remarkable: I don’t know one. Maybe I was a lonely child.
With time, all things fade, however I don’t think five is too extraordinary at this point. There is an intangible adhesive that is eroded. Connectivity is just not there.
Now I love receiving that kind of mail. It’s always so much FUN to decide who your guest is going to be.
My guest may very well be a book.
Gosh I miss snail mail. Though I do NOT miss that frantic search for a +1.
Thanks for stopping by! Unfortunately, with the well dry around here, Vegas odds are there won’t be a search.
Your guest is not going to be a book! You go back to Wendy’s and grab the night manager. Or go to The Men’s Warehouse and act like you’re being fitted for a suit–and then ask that girl with the measuring tape.
What’s uncomfortable about the above scenario is the employees mentioned are actually both male. Aside from it being frown upon by the police, I don’t think I’ll be grabbing either gentleman any time soon. However, that reminds me. I need to get my suits from Men’s Warehouse altered. They’re so nice, and I’d hate to buy a new one because they didn’t fit anymore. I believe alterations are free, too.
But no, seriously, I’ve not connected with a woman in the sense of chemistry for a while now and certainly not around here. I’m not going to drag someone I don’t either know or connect with to a wedding. That’s just begging for an unhappy ending.
Good point. Now you just have to get that one closer to Hooterville. Or you further away. I’ve gone to weddings with co-workers as friends. Then you can drink up and dance and not worry about having any interest in each other. But I bet all your co-workers are male!
My coworkers are either family or over the age of 50. I’m not trying to be difficult here, but there is a huge age gap in the area.