Mailbag has evolved. You’d think it would take more than four weeks, right? But who am I to stop progress? It turns out the mailbag isn’t just for reading and writing questions anymore. It’s for reading and writing. Don’t get me wrong. I just mean there’s more to it these days. When you achieve a certain level of celebrity, people count on you. You become a lighthouse in the seas of life. A source of advice for the world-weary traveler. Have I achieved that status? Am I one that people can trust to solve their problems? Their moral issues? The more mundane questions of their lives? The simple answer can be summed up like this: no. But a more complicated answer would be this: yes. Maybe that wasn’t more complicated, but it felt like it was. It has more letters. More letter.
Can I tell people what to ask me? Do I have the power to get inside people’s heads and pull out only the questions I want to answer? I don’t. If I did I would be a mutant. Have you seen the X-Men? Being a mutant could turn out very badly for me. Although it may be cool. Who doesn’t want nearly indestructible metal claws at their beck and call. I do, but I digress. I am not a mutant, so I am at the mercy of the e-mailing public. No indestructible claws here, just a pledge to answer your questions. Come, curious petitioner. Sue no more in vain for response. The mailbag…THE MONDAY MAILBAG is waiting.
Something terrible happened to me today. I was driving to school with the windows down because it was so nice out. I love spring, but now I don’t know how I feel about it. Maybe winter is better because the cold keeps your windows closed. Ugh! I can hardly even write it, it’s too horrible. So, I was at the light just by the school parking lot and was alone. Sometimes when I’m alone I like to sing. Nothing wrong with that, right? Wrong. So, I’m wailing away to some Miley Cyrus when a car full of cute boys drives up. They were in the lane right next to me. Laughing. I don’t even know how long they were there before I saw them. I was mortified, opposite of LOL! I’m an idiot. What do I do?
Hannah, Butte MT
Opposite of LOL indeed, Hannah, from the home state of my father. Having spent time in Montana, even having passed through Butte, I feel a special connection with you. With you and the statue of that woman that overlooks the town there. That’s in Butte, right? I hope so, or I’m the idiot here.
Anyway, so you got caught rockin’ out to a few bars of Miley. Big deal. Right? Who hasn’t thrown their own impromptu party in the USA? I know I have. But I get it. It’s high school. It’s boys. It’s all that drama.
Well, listen, let’s assume you know these guys. They go to your high school, maybe you see them at a party or something. All I can say is, the next time you hang out, you will redeem yourself. I mean, your heart can’t rest til then, so you’ll be ready. I suggest you find out when the next big high school, teen, crazy party’s gonna be and you plan ahead. Go to some kind of pet store and buy a bunch of crickets or a box full of feeder mice. Then when the guys are away from their car, let go of your new friends inside. Then you get in that party and you have yourself a good time! You get those boys off your mind!
But, somehow, Hannah, I don’t think that advice suits you. You're better than that. Revenge is beneath you, and if you stoop down there, you’re just cheapening who you are. You become less you in a way. I say, when people find you unexpectedly belting out Miley Cyrus, you sing louder. Eardrum-poppingly, strain-your-vocal-chords loud. You be you. Who cares what everyone else thinks? Hannah, there’s always gonna be another embarrassment; you’re always gonna wanna hide in shame. Always gonna feel a little silly; sometimes you’ll feel downright lame. It ain’t about exacting re-venge; ain’t about projecting anger on the other guy. There’s no time! Yeah, yeah, yeah. There’s no time!
There’s no time for those hurt feelings, Hannah. Bad feelings damage only you. Let it go. Sing on. Just know, whether you're in the car, your room, at school, or wherever, if you’re jammin’ to Miley, this guy’s belting it out right along with you.
Problem? Solved. This is your Monday Mail…bag!