I have previously mentioned Hubby’s mail fetish in my blog. If he spies the mail truck, he drops whatever he’s doing and races outside to retrieve whatever the postal service has deposited in our mailbox. Once he’s seen that truck, the mail cannot simply sit there unattended.

Occasionally—though admittedly rarely—I spot the truck before he does. When that happens, I’ll casually call out, “The mail’s here!” just for the sheer entertainment of watching him bolt out of the house like Ed McMahon is standing at our doorstep with a giant Publishers Clearing House check. It’s the human equivalent of yelling “Squirrel!” to the dogs.

If he somehow misses the truck, he checks the box multiple times throughout the day until the mail finally arrives. Since 93% of what we receive qualifies as junk mail—the paper equivalent of spam—I fail to understand the urgency. He would probably be appalled, but sometimes entire days go by when I forget to check the mailbox.

I could maybe understand his obsession a little better during the Christmas season. After all, a lot of goodies arrive in December—Christmas cards from friends we only hear from once a year, Christmas gifts, the Discover bill . . . oh, wait, thankfully, that comes in January. But Hubby’s mail enthusiasm is a year-round condition.

But now, he has escalated the situation. Every morning, he receives an email notification of what is scheduled to arrive in the mailbox that day. (And Heaven help us if it doesn’t!) Personally, I think previewing mail is a spoiler alert. I want the thrill of surprise when I open that mailbox. Who knows what wonderful and unexpected treasures await? Perhaps a coupon for 15% off at Ollie’s. Maybe an invitation to enjoy a “free” steak dinner in exchange for sitting through a two-hour seminar on estate planning. Or a political flyer for a candidate I’ve never heard of running for an office I never knew existed.

“We’re getting something in a handwritten envelope, but the return address only says NOP,” Hubby announced this morning while I was trying to finish my Boggle puzzle at the breakfast table. “I wonder what NOP stands for.”

“Don’t get so excited,” I warned him. “It probably stands for ‘The National Organization of Pretending,’ and contains a political survey that doesn’t really care about your answers unless you send money.”

Still, something hand-addressed is so uncommon these days, I suppose it warrants a modicum of excitement. If that were just all. But then he went on to enumerate the other pieces of mail we had coming that day to look forward to. Another catalog from Swiss Colony, even though we only buy from them at Christmas. A sweepstakes declaring, “YOU MAY ALREADY BE A WINNER!” A flyer from a pizza restaurant. A pre-approved credit card offer with an interest rate only slightly lower than that of organized crime loan sharks. And, finally, that urgent notice about the car warranty about to expire on the vehicle we sold three presidents ago.

“Plus, Interval wants us to upgrade our membership.” He finished perusing the list.

When we were dating, whenever he went out of town for TDY (which was fairly often), I had instructions to collect his mail every day. I don’t know why, exactly, as there wasn’t anything he could do about it until he came home. Yet, every night, when he called, he quizzed me about the mail situation. This was a bit of a pain because after working all day, I had to drive across town, retrieve his mail, deposit it on his kitchen counter, drive back across town, pick up my father for dinner, go home and make dinner, then drive my father home.

Don’t tell Hubby, but there were a few times I skipped the nightly mail ritual and simply collected two days’ worth of mail the next night. He never knew. And as we have been married for thirty-four years now, I would hate for him to discover I deliberately deceived him during our courtship. He might decide I’m untrustworthy and rethink his decision to marry me.

“You know,” I said in that helpful, “for your own good” type of way, “You may be just a tad obsessed about the mail.”

“You’ve discovered another quirk.” He sighed. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”

“So, I’m supposed to divorce you because you enjoy junk mail?”

He didn’t answer.

“But I do feel another blog coming on!” I informed him cheerfully.

“I’m so glad I provide you with blog material,” he replied.

I may be wrong, but he didn’t sound all that glad.

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