We have lived in our gingerbread house bungalow on the corner for approaching 3 years now. Without fail, we still receive mail for the previous owner and for someone named Richard Garcia, who we think must live on the “South” equivalent to our “North” address. Usually under the addressee it reads “or current resident” which is our saving grace, because we know we can just throw it away.
Recently, though we’ve been getting mail that looks somewhat important, like things from insurance companies and tax information.
So there we stood, my husband on one side of the island in the kitchen, and myself standing across from him, staring at the single envelope taunting us from the middle of the granite countertop. Most people would know exactly what to do in a situation like this, but for a couple of awkward over-thinkers, this was a nightmare.
The exchange went something like this:
Me: Well let’s put it back into the mailbox and the mailman will take it.
Husband: But what if he thinks it’s our mail? And, like, we just didn’t take it out of the box yet?
M: Oh, you’re right.
H: I’ll get a post-it.
M: Yes! Good plan.
H: What should I write?
An onlooker would have assumed that we were tactfully deciding how we would defuse the bomb in the center of the island.
Me: What about, like “Not a current resident?”
Husband: But then they might think he is a previous resident, and he hasn’t ever lived here. What about like “Wrong address?”
M: But it doesn’t say the wrong address, it was delivered to the address on the envelope!
H: (Panic beginning to set it, pushing the post-it and pen in my direction) Then you write it!
The conversation escalated as more and more ridiculous ideas were being hurled above the envelope.
He don’t live here!
We don’t know him!
We hate you, Richard Garcia!
At least 15 minutes later, laughing as I cleared the mist from the corners of my eyes, I grabbed the pen and scribbled, “Not a resident here.” and dashed away in an effort to just end the madness, ready to shove it into the mailbox flap next to the front door.
That was until he stopped me, questioning, “Do you really think we should put it out tonight? Or should we do it in the morning? I wouldn’t want it to blow away or something.”
So this is my advice to you, if you’re a chronic over-thinker, marry someone who is, too. Sure, 95% of the time we get in the car to go to dinner, back down the driveway and head toward the main intersection still not knowing where we are going, we have to debate who will do a better job of calling the roofer, or the pizza delivery man, or the vet, or what would be the better angle at which to place the little bulldog cookie jar on the counter… but luckily I’ve got the perfect partner to over-think with, and lucky for Richard Garcia, eventually, we do diffuse most bombs together.