The Donut Letter

So. I go to the mailbox this afternoon after a brisk walking-of-the-dog. The walk was short because Cody is irrationally afraid of rain. Or wind. Or of any discussion involving rain or wind. When it thunders, he crawls right under the bed and puts his paws directly over his shaggy eyebrows to block out the world.

I remove the mail and start to flip through the envelopes and flyers. There's an envelope from the holder of my student loans telling me that another month's worth has been electronically zapped from my checking account. There's an invitation to the Annual Red Apple Sale from some store, a letter from the church and an invitation for my husband to receive Playboy, delivered directly to our home, for one year for only ONE DOLLAR. I put that aside for his review. I decided then to open the letter from the church. Our address was hand written on the envelope. How often do you see that anymore? It deserved my attention.

Inside the envelope were two letters. Both began with, "Dear Volunteer." That's right. I volunteered for things. Things I would eventually have to do. It's really great to feel like you've done something already when you sign up to volunteer. It feels good to sign up. Then the letter comes.

I have obligated myself to bring donuts to the casual church service once every few weeks. I have to bring 3 dozen when it's my turn. I have volunteered to EAT donuts. That's what I've done. Those girls in Playboy, they eat donuts, don't they?