My car and the mailbox, an ongoing battle
We get our mail delivered to the house. We don’t get too many bills – we’ve gone paperless for most of that. We do get circulars, come-ons for credit cards we can’t afford and appeals for donations. It’s not the mail that’s the problem.
It’s the mail box. I keep hitting it. With the car.
Let me explain: It’s not my fault. The Long Suffering Husband installed it in a most unfortuitous place. When we bought the house. Ten years ago.
The LSH gets the driveway, and I get the graveled area in front of the house. He put the mail box up where I park.
The garage is too full of our stuff to get a car in there and has been since roughly eight or nine years ago. It’s strange how much more stuff you accumulate when you have the space for it. Of course, once you’ve found somewhere to put it, you never see it again. At least not until after it’s either no longer useful or you’ve bought something to replace it.
Anyway, the LSH put the mail box right on the edge of the graveled area where I park.
Mostly, I back into it. Lately, the LSH has noticed some damage to my car’s bumper.
“It looks like it’s cracked a little here,” he said.
Apparently, the car’s bumper and quite a bit of the car is made of some rubbery fiberglass stuff. What happened to the old days, when a car was a car and you could run over a mail box without so much as a blink of an eye?
“Have you backed into something?” he asked, probing the (very, very small) crack.
“Don’t be silly,” I scoffed. “Don’t you think that, if I had backed into something, I would have remembered it?”
I will submit that is technically not a lie, since I never said I hadn’t backed into something, just that I would have remembered if I did. Which, of course, I do. I just didn’t tell him about it. At absolute worst, it’s a lie by omission, which is hardly a lie at all.
Sunday, pulling in, I heard a small, soft thump. More of a tap, really.
I knew I’d hit that (redacted) mail box again.
“Little Professor, did you hear that?” He was sitting in the back seat.
“What?” He looked up from his copy of “The Black Cauldron” and blinked owlishly.
“Never mind.” I hopped out and circled around to the back of the car.
There was a small scratch and a dent. Well, I wouldn’t call it a dent, per se. A mini-dent. A quasi-dent? I tried telling the LSH it really wasn’t much of a dent, but he wasn’t buying it.
“That mail box has been there for 10 years,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’d think that you would have moved it by now.”
(Wallace-Minger, The Weirton Daily Times community editor, is a Weirton resident and can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org)