Perhaps I need therapy, but I often wonder: No matter where I live, whether it is New York City or the rural mountain town of Missoula, Mont., my mail never arrives until the bank closes. The heavily anticipated unemployment check or Grandma Ethel's $10 birthday check never seems to make an appearance without the added bonus of letting it sit on the coffee table until the 9 a.m. bank opening the following morning.
Don't make fun of me; $10 can mean a lot when the empty gas indicator has been glowing for two days.
Is it some type of conspiracy? Is there a grudge the postal workers carry and share across the nation toward me?
Perhaps the word is out that I haven't mailed a letter in five years. Is this payback for using AOL mail, Facebook and Twitter as a means of communicating for the past 10 years?
I wait with apple pie in hand to the first postal carrier who brings a prayer-needed check before noon.