We pulled in the driveway yesterday and I announced to my husband I was going to run to the mailbox and check the mail. He snickered a little, stopped at the end of the drive to let me out. But before I had the chance to open the door he asked if getting the mail was like Facebook to me: I liked checking it. I snickered back. If he was a bachelor, they’d stop delivering his mail because the box would eventually burst at the seams from all the mail he didn’t retrieve from the box. This is a small way in which we differ.
But I smiled internally at his question. I am the mailman’s daughter.
