Another Mother’s Day has come and gone, greeting cards, and I think I like you even less than I did last year. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like receiving mail which doesn’t require I reply with a check; but now that I’m an adult, you just have no place in my life.
When I was a child, greeting card, getting mail was a thrill. It was never a bill I had to pay. It was always sent special just for me. It was usually sparkly. It always had money in it. Now that I’m an adult, the cards I receive aren’t nearly that spectacular. They never have sparkles anymore.
Now, I get cards in the mail for all manner of holidays — because naturally it would be a sin not to honor National Wine Day. But in the midst of all this card sending, the concept has really lost it’s luster. I’m not as excited to see my dear relative’s signature as I was when I was eight. Now it’s my kitchen counter that accumulates you and your friends, greeting card, and I don’t like it. Why couldn’t my well wisher save a tree and shoot me a Facebook message instead?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some super earth-conscious millennial. I still have a paper calendar and write myself random notes in fifty thousand notebooks I keep stashed strategically around the house. (And by strategically, I really mean I lose one and then get another on a regular basis, so my house is overflowing with notebooks.) I wish I could say otherwise, but that’s the honest truth. My dislike of you is less about my aversion to killing trees and more about the fact that I simply don’t like you.
Nothing says lukewarm sentiment like a hasty signature on a poem written by someone else. You can add in all the adorable puppies you want, but you can’t fool me, greeting card. You got sent to me out of a sense of obligation from someone I love. Why would you do that to them? For the five bucks someone spent on you to send to me, they could have bought me an ice cream cone. The thought saddens me. What a waste.
Let me be clear: I am in no way saying I don’t want gifts. I love gifts. If my friend’s aim is to send me money so I can celebrate me, I’ll gladly share my Paypal email with them. (Technology rules!) But you, greeting card, are not a gift. You are a curse that plagues my kitchen table for a day or two until my guilt subsides and I throw you away.
The only thing worse than receiving you, greeting card, is being obligated to send you. I can barely remember to change one pair of yoga pants for another in the morning; trying to keep up with this month’s holidays and who I need to send cards to is completely impossible. For the money I spend on greeting cards, I could probably just fly my kids out to visit with relatives instead. Sigh.
Greeting card, I admit that you will probably live to see another day. I begrudgingly admit defeat. You should just know that I’m not happy about it, though. Don’t try; the pictures of puppies won’t help.