Here’s the magic. When you drop that letter in the box and hear that thud (or flimsy slide, if the box is empty and sad), you feel a little rush. You just beat the deadline. You’re a hero. That card to Aunt Carol, the one you wrote “Sorry I forgot your birthday, here’s a Christmas tree I drew on a napkin” inside – it will be on its way. It might take twelve days. But it’s moving.
And if you miss it? Don’t panic. You have two options. One: drive to the big, 24-hour post office depot. The one that smells of diesel and despair. Or two: just email everyone a funny picture of you holding the card captioned “It’s the thought that counts, right?” We all forgive digital failure. We judge postal failure. So go. Go now. Put on your coat. Grab the cards. Run. I believe in you. Well, I believe in you if you leave in the next five minutes. After that, you’re on your own, butterfingers.
Last call for the slow train. Don’t let your second-class love become third-class regret. Happy posting.
