Waiting for the mail used to be a wonderful anticipation.
From an early age, the mail meant potential fun. I had horse-loving penpals, horse magazines, and horse literature that came in regularly. Sometimes, on a Saturday or summer morning, I'd wait on the porch steps for the mailman to come.
I was also most comfortable in my own company, so one childhood fantasy was the idea of living in a house out in a forest, all by myself. I'd have "Do No Trespass" signs all over. Yet, as an afterthought, I'd probably have a sign that said, "Mailman Always Welcome!" After all, I wouldn't want to miss out on all my horse magazines and such.
Therefore, I was rather appalled when, in the 80s, I had a boyfriend who lived in a condo community, and he only checked his mailbox once a month. When I expressed dismay at such an idea, he shrugged and said, "Well, there's usually nothing but bills. Why would I check it more frequently?" I couldn't imagine a life where all one got in the mail was bills. After all, once I was an adult, my frequent equine material was supplemented by many fandom related letters, newsletters, and fanzines.
In modern neighborhoods, many of the mailboxes are all located in one communal place, so one might need to walk a block or two to get their mail each day. But I live on one of the few blocks where we have actual mailboxes in front of our homes. In the dozen years I've lived here, the mail has often come late in the afternoon. In recent weeks, it's been coming as late as 6:30 at night.
In one recent moment of silent frustration that the mail comes so late, I asked myself, "Why does it matter?" I then realized that it really doesn't. When I first moved here, most payments from clients were snail mailed to me, so I was most eager for the mail to see what money arrived. Now, most clients pay via credit card, so I don't often have reason to expect checks in the mail. And since penpals, periodicals, and all other information of interest takes place online -- as well as bills -- snail mail has been reduced to about 95% junk mail. And I don't even bother opening most junk mail.
So, now that I'm well in my 50s, the thrill of checking the mailbox has waned. It has been replaced, in a small way, by checking email, social media, etc. But none of those modern things has ever equaled the thrill of seeing the mailman walking up street and wondering what delightful new material he had for me.