So, on this Last Post Day, grab your cards, your stamps, and your dignity. Stand in that post office queue with the other procrastinators, united in our shared failure to plan ahead. And remember: the postal workers are secretly rooting for you. They’ve seen it all—cards with dried glitter that smells like regret, envelopes addressed to “Grandma with the Cats,” and one poor soul who tried to mail a real gingerbread man. (It got eaten in transit. Allegedly.)
Mail it, go home, pour yourself a mulled wine, and be proud. You fought the clock, and you won. And if the card doesn’t arrive in time? Blame the weather. Blame the reindeer. Blame the postal elves’ union. Or just blame me. I’ll take the heat—because I already sent my cards in October. No, I’m not crying. It’s just the Christmas tree pollen.
