I’ve got mail! Hate mail, to be precise. Two avid readers have finally had enough of my nonsensical shenanigans and chosen to share their loathing with me. One was an honest-to-god handwritten postcard! Talk about your old school. I love the commitment, Carol! (This is not her real name, of course. Or is it?)
There was a time when notes like these would have sent me into either a defensive spiral or rage haze, both entailing creative combinations of swear words and harsh adjectives. But I’ve been doing this for more than 16 years. Sixteen! And I’ve seen some stuff, readers. This is nothing. I’m honestly rather flattered that two women took the time from their clearly busy lives to have a go at me. I matter, I really do!
I was disappointed, however, in the level of critique. There were no righteous accusations of spousal, child, or alcohol abuse; no cruel indictments of my un-American stupid liberal politics; no brutal declarations that my hopefully-soon-to-be afterlife be spent in, ‘Hell-o operator, give me No. 9.” Come on! If you’re going to dish it out, make sure it’s got meat on it. Mean-girl correspondence should be juicy, people.
No, my new special friends simply think I’m boring, irrelevant and a waste of paper space. They’ve been reading me forever but can’t stand another minute of my dumb column and they’re vowing to, from now on, throw me out with the trash where I belong.
Beverly, I hear you, I do (again, this is not her real name. Probably). But I also thank you because mail is mail, hate or otherwise. I’ll take it!
Peace out.
