Ode to The Paperboy

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He's finding his way through the snow, the orange stripe of his heavy bag crisscrossing his chest. He's carrying the news. He's a paper...man.

You see men delivering the news in my part of town nowadays, not boys. I have to make this clarification when declaring my crush on the guy who used to pull up in his dented white Ford. The world would move in slow-motion the moment his door opened and his blue eyes lit on mine; somewhere in my garage, Take My Breath Away would begin to play, and I would find myself saying things before completely thinking through the implications. On the day he pulled in while my kids and I waited for their playdate to arrive, I told him why we were there and added, "But you can stay and play."

And you wonder why my husband is happier when I stay indoors.

But my efforts paid off: the paper appeared right on our doorstep without fail. No trudging out in the cold for us! Then one day, a beat-up Cadillac pulled near the base of our driveway and tossed the paper a few feet, managing to throw it in the exact path our tires travel. Every day I'd smoosh the paper until Greg finally asked him about it.

"Where would you like it?" the large man bellowed.

"Near the front door," Greg said.

"HA! I bet you would!" he said.

We had little hopes of ever reading a paper without tire tracks again, but Cadillac Man came through. To stay on his good side, we made him a plate of chocolate chip cookies at Christmas.

He sent a thank you note with our next paper. It began with this sentence:
"Mmmmmm cookies."

It also included a business card for real estate.

So we're good. It's probably best that Blue Eyes is gone; I can focus my attention elsewhere.

Because have you seen the mailman?

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