How many years after my divorce do I need to keep sending my former mother-in-law a Christmas card? Is five enough?
I hear ya.
You burst gleefully from the shackles of a miserable marital mistake and sign a lease on some new digs where you spend your first afternoon lying on your back on a human-shaped carpet stain shouting “Freedom” with all the verve of a blue-faced Mel Gibson being torn asunder by medieval torturers.
You down cheap domestic sparkling straight from the bottle and revel – briefly and beautifully – in your emancipation.
And then the mail-man casually drops a Christmas Card from your former mother-in-law through the slot to your past and you realise you are NEVER GETTING OUT.
Christmas Cards are funny things.
No one likes writing them, no one really cares if they receive one, and they clutter up your house for several months. They are now mostly sent by real estate agents hoping for some unprompted recall when you need to sell your house and move into an unfurnished apartment that smells like death and feels like Nirvana.
But once you get one, you have to respond.
Unless you don’t.
Seriously, she hates you already. It’s just guilt. So free that bird and drop the Christmas Card in your garbage bin. By the time it has been covered by your Pad Thai leftovers, you’ll be over it and thanking me.
And secretly, so will she.