Our mail lady putters down the country road, both windows rolled down, cigarette dangling from her fingers, voice booming over Bluetooth. She’s always talking to someone. I can’t tell if she lights up multiple cigarettes along the route or if it’s just her routine when she hits our stretch of road.
In the past month, two of her mistakes have sent me trekking to the brick-and-mortar post office.
The first was a peach-colored 4×4 slip, stuck to my envelope in her loopy handwriting: “Sorry hon, you need more postage.” But I’d measured that envelope with a wooden school ruler, double-checked length and width. I knew I had it right. Back when I helped with odds and ends at Mike’s accounting office, I’d learned to weigh and print out postage—stressful at first, but eventually, I found a rhythm.
So when the uniformed clerk at the post office confirmed I’d done it right, she asked who my carrier was. I handed her the slip, and she nodded knowingly, like we’d just confirmed the name of the family’s undesired stepchild.
The second time was today. I raised the little red flag, tucked two outgoing letters inside, and waited for her to circle back. She did—cigarette in mouth, windows down, voice booming, but this time, she breezed right past. Maybe since she didn’t have mail for us that day, our box was out of sight, out of mind. Still, I had things! A speeding ticket I’d rather see paid than overdue, plus a letter to a friend I wanted sent. So, I took my keister on a four-minute drive to town and slipped them into the blue box myself.
Meanwhile, the ginger down the hall (you know who) is pestering me again. She waves her hand like a wizard, reminding me I didn’t check on her at the six-hour mark (she meant six minutes). And she’s right, I didn’t—because I was too caught up in this Stoic philosophy talk I’d been listening to.
The gist? You don’t have to get involved. You don’t have to have a feeling about every little thing. You don’t have to let someone else’s words sting, don’t have to spin an event into a story, don’t have to let it mean more than it does. You can just let it be. You can focus on what’s actually within your control.
No one can hurt you without your consent. Their insults? Just sounds carried on the wind. It’s not the event that disturbs you—it’s your judgment. Change your judgment, and the disturbance disappears. When someone tries to provoke you, pause. Ask yourself: Am I giving them control over my peace? Let their actions fall away like leaves in a stream. Guard your thoughts and emotions like a fortress.
That’s what I want to cultivate: peace of mind. The waves of chaos that sneak through the cracks of my psyche’s windows, I will tend to them. I choose whether to let them stay.
The kitchen is a cooked and eaten in disaster. What if I didn’t clean it? Could I really let myself off the hook for one freaking night? For goodness’ sake, me. Live la vida loca for once, and que sera sera my booty down the hall to the bed instead. If I were a bachelorette, I’d neglect it without a thought or care. But marriage, something about it, if Dave tries to do it, I’ll feel bad that I didn’t so I do it, to avoid feeling bad.
Fine, fine, fine. I’m going. To clean. Boo. But I know doing it will feel better than not.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 