My Arch Nemesis- My Mailbox

From previous posts, it's probably pretty safe to say that all my readers know by now that I'm not the brightest bulb in the socket. I am, in all reality, often very slow. This would be a horrible thing to live with were it not for the fact that my stupidity usually reveals itself in abjectly hilarious ways...

So, I moved into my new place. I'm ecstatic. Someday I'll have to write a blog post about my battles with the utility companies. I became slightly less ecstatic. I locked myself out. More of a damper on my enthusiasm. I didn't have hot water. My enthusiasm grows still more feeble. By the time I trudged out to get the mail, my confidence in my own abilities and my excitement about my new condo were but paltry flickers.

It was dark. Incredibly steamy. I was barefoot because I had been wearing high heels all day. I was tired. Achy. All I wanted to do was harvest a new set of bills from the mailbox and return to my air conditioning. Now, I had no idea which mailbox was mine. I had a key. And the number 7 scratched on a paper by a realtor who was trying to be helpful. I assumed my mailbox was number 7, and I assumed that my key would open it. There are two boxes situated down the street which must house my mail. Or so I think.

I approach the two doors a little warily. I'm very bad with locks. (See reference to general stupidity in first paragraph.) In front of me I see a door, with one key hole down in the right corner. I try to insert my key. It won't go. I try the box next to it. Same deal. Both boxes have two large doors, locked by only one key hole and my key doesn't fit in either one.

I'm stubborn. I stand on my tip-toes and push. I angle the key from below, crouching in the street trying to find the right angle. Several times the key goes in, but it can't do anything once it's there. Finally, I stuff it in, wrap one arm around the side of the mailbox, dig my toes into the grass by the side of the road. My toes get squished in the mud, I get a cramp in my arm. And the key does not move. Frustrated, I give up and go inside.

Several days later I decide to try again. I've decided I'll give myself one more chance before I go and ask my elderly neighbors how I open the mailbox. But given my neighbors' general consensus on the ignorance and foolishness of youth (they're all about 70), I decided to have one more try before drinking from that cup of humility.

I go through the same ordeal as last time. Same result. The difference being that this time about 7 cars drove by while I was attempting. I blushed- mortified that my senior citizen neighbors could watch me wrestle with an inanimate object while they gaze at me from their Buicks.

I was talking on the phone to Bunny, when I suddenly snorted with exasperation, kicked the mailbox, and yelled, "Arrrgh! I can't figure this thing out!" (Yes, I was sinfully angry. No, at the time I didn't care.) When I told Bunny what was going on she, without a pause, said,

"Don't mailboxes have two sides?" Pulling my feet out of the dirt, unwrapping my arm, jerking my key out of the lock, I walked around to the other side of the mailbox...

And there were 30, neatly marked, individual tiny doors. One of them had a number 7 on it.

Like I said, not the brightest bulb in the socket...