Return to sender

My mailbox is over its quota.

Now, in the real world, this might mean that the nice folks at the Post Office are drowning in letters and parcels and cards that I’d been remiss in retrieving.

Which, let’s face it, at this time of year is perfectly plausible and a mostly accurate portrayal. I haven’t been able to walk to the Post Office in weeks without having to return home to get a vehicle to truck back that day’s haul.

However, I’m not talking about the real world, where mail takes up cubic space and costs many dollars and cents to transport from place to place.

I’m talking about an email box on a server somewhere in the ethosphere, overflowing with news of cyber sales and enormous opportunities I will undoubtedly miss since I just can’t seem to connect with that wealthy but unloved Nigerian prince who has money to give away to perfect strangers.

How do I know this? Well, my internet-service-provider-slash-old-email-purveyor forwarded a copy of the email they couldn’t fit into my mailbox.

... to another mailbox?

Don’t ask me to explain it. I still don't know how the Fax machine works all these years after it has become mostly obsolete. All I know is that the thing I might not have seen if they didn’t insist I couldn’t see it was an important message from Etsy. 

Apparently when some twee hipster has crocheted something “amazing,” that is now on sale just in time for holiday shopping, the entire World Wide Web could come to a crashing end.

Of course, this shouldn’t bother me. Thousands of unread emails taking up space at an address I rarely visit and only give out to the shifty types who will sell my information to other shift types, all of whom are trying to sell me something, should be low on my priorities list.

And yet, I am curious enough to spend a few minutes figuring out how to log on.

“You. Have. Fifty-thousand-four-hundred-twelve emails ...”

“And you can't delete them from your server by deleting them from your phone.”

But it turns out if you don't delete them from the server, you will hear from a tinny, robotic voice every hour on the hour, and on the half hour … forevvvvvvvvvver!!!

I’m not kidding. Even as I write this, I have been trying to pitch hundreds of these old pitches out of an open browser window. It's not as simple as crumpling paper and practicing your hook shot. I have to check each email individually and jetison them in groups that are no larger than 25.

Each batch takes at least 25 seconds to spin their way into the trash. Did I mention I have to go into the trash and repeat the process? (Trash mail counts and that just mega bytes).

Twenty minutes later and only three hundred and seventy-five emails have spun out. And of course, my available space still hasn’t budged.

Oh, wait ...

There’s been a development ...

“You have 1 percent of your usable space remaining.”

Why am I doing this? Honestly, I have Christmas cards to address, and laundry to wash and fold. I could empty the dishwasher and fill it up again. The dog is holding her leash in her mouth and looking at me plaintively.

Gosh, I could be learning about how net neutrality will make all of this worse, or why I should specifically hate bitcoin instead of just feeling generally opposed to its existence.

Seriously? Why?

If only I could mark them return to sender.