I’m not a thank-you card person. I’ve written maybe a half dozen in my life, and they were all after a month of nagging from my parents.
A thank-you card person is thoughtful. Is open. Is more into etiquette than I am.
I had a baby shower, a month ago now. I really don’t think I need to be writing thank you notes. Not really because it was expected of everyone to be as generous as they were. But because I said all kinds of thank-yous while the people were there. I feel like I’m literally out of ways to say “thank you!” Everyone got a hug when they came in, everyone got a “thank you” when I opened their gift, and when they left they got another hug and an even more genuine “thank you”.
I wrote two thank you cards so far. Each took me an hour. I wrote letters. If I’m going to take the time to write someone a thank you, a “Thank you for the diapers and the whateverelsespecific you gave us” it just doesn’t cut it.
Writing thank you notes makes me itchy. I love writing, and this would be no exception, except it’s not fiction. I write fiction because it’s easy for me. I can look at the paper and find the story that is fun to read. I can take my emotions and put them in perspective, twist them and make them someone elses. Make them easy to deal with.
Straight up writing down how grateful I am to someone has cost me four or five cards already that I’ve just thrown out because what I had written just wasn’t good enough.
I really wish I was a thank-you card person. Being able to send out thank-you cards in a timely manner shows a put-togetherness that I’m just not. I strive for it. Sometimes the simple act of existing takes so much effort that my room is waist deep in things that just aren’t where they belong. (A mess).
I can make as many to-do lists as I can find papers for, but that doesn’t mean the things get done. I did laundry two weeks ago and the basket of clean laundry is STILL sitting there waiting to get folded. It was third thing on the list, right after writing the thank-you cards and repacking some of my junk from a crate to boxes. The thank-you cards never got finished, so the box never got re-packed and the laundry is taunting me still.
In self defense I should point out that while the bedroom is a mess, the dishes get done daily and there is nothing growing anywhere in this apartment that wasn’t planted on purpose.