Please don’t call child services after you read this story.<\/p>\n
So, I’m great with saying thank-you — I’m horrendous with a thank-you note. My poor mother tried her best, but sending out thank-you notes….well, it just never took.<\/p>\n
I dislike the sense of obligation that accompanies a gift or a good deed these days. A thank-you note is too formal, too standardized to have meaning – a hug, an appreciative comment (“That book was perfect, thanks!”) is quite enough for me. To be blunt, I don’t expect or require a thank-you note from you, and I wish you didn’t expect or require one from me.<\/p>\n
However, when my father passed away a few years ago, I decided to make an exception. I needed to let people know how much their support and comfort meant to me during such a difficult time. It was the one time I felt that only<\/i> the written word could truly convey the depth of my gratitude.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At that particular point in my life, I was slogging away as an editorial assistant at a magazine, earning a pittance while paying New York City rental prices. Through a friend, I managed to land a job babysitting for the loveliest little family you could possibly imagine. They had an apartment overlooking the Union Square area of Manhattan–one entire wall had floor-to-ceiling windows with spotlights beaming up from the floor, highlighting the gorgeous view. In a way, I considered the extra job a luxurious getaway from the realities of work, illness, family obligations and financial stress.<\/p>\n
When I returned to New York after my dad’s funeral, I jumped right back into the relief of my day-to-day routine, including this part-time job. One night after putting the baby to sleep, desperately needing to express these feelings of gratitude to those who had helped my family through so much, I decided to make my first adult attempt at writing thank-you notes.<\/p>\n
Now, I’m a slob when it comes to personal organization. Work? I’m great. My purse? Well, it’s where ATM receipts, bubble gum wrappers and expired Metrocards go to die. When I walked into the apartment that evening, I carelessly tossed my Old Navy canvas purse by the windows (those floor-to-ceiling windows, remember?) and sat on the floor to play with the baby.<\/p>\n
After I put him to bed, I fished out newly-purchased Hallmark cards from my purse and started composing heartfelt and individualized thank-you’s. Obviously<\/i>, once this was done I felt exhausted, having never before undertaken the Herculean task of writing thank-you notes. So I neatly addressed them, bundled them up and put them in my purse. Then, I took a nap.<\/p>\n
It was a light nap, and after about 15 minutes I was roused by the faint smell of smoke. I jumped up, did a thorough apartment sweep to make sure it wasn’t about to burn down on my watch, checked on the baby, realized the windows were open, and thought, hey – it’s summer. Probably someone barbequing. <\/p>\n
I sprawled back on the couch and tried to doze a bit more. Got back up, thinking, no- I definitely<\/b> smelled something burning. I did my little walkaround again, found absolutely nothing on fire, and finally decided to call my mom for advice (it’s just what you do<\/i> when you don’t know what to do – call your mama).<\/p>\n
I walked over to my purse, still in its position on the floor next to the windows, and opened it up to fish out my phone.<\/p>\n
WHOOOSH! A tower of flame rose up out of the canvas bag. All those little scraps of trash I hoard like cash (and also some actual cash) acted as kindling while the spotlights (remember those awesome spotlights lining the floor?) burned their way through my cheap, flammable purse. <\/p>\n
Oh yeah…the thank-you notes? They burned too.<\/p>\n
I panicked. I don’t know if you’re supposed to stop, drop and roll a purse, but what I<\/i> did was pick up the purse, hold it as far away from my body as possible and sprint to the kitchen sink. I threw that thing in, still burning, and turned on the faucet. I watched sadly as the flames died down, leaving behind the ashes of my good intentions. <\/p>\n
I’m ashamed to say I didn’t have the heart to re-write those thank-you notes after that. Due to the third-degree burns, it was hard to hold a pen for a while (ok, fine, I didn’t really <\/em>suffer any third-degree burns). <\/p>\n But truthfully, I never did get back to the thank-you notes. I doubt I can get away with claiming that this incident was so <\/strong>scarring that I should never have to write a thank-you note again<\/i> (or can I?). <\/p>\n Actually, writing this story made me realize how much I still want to commit those feelings of gratitude to paper. So I’m working on them now. It’s a gesture 3 years late, but I’m finding that the words flow as easily as if it had been the day after my dad’s funeral. And…it’s helping heal some lingering wounds.<\/p>\n I’ll never be a thank-you note Nazi, but sometimes a kind gesture transcends Hallmark, personal ethics and, well, fire. For the future, in those very special cases, I think I’ll make an exception to my no-thank-you-note rule.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Please don’t call child services after you read this story. So, I’m great with saying thank-you — I’m horrendous with a thank-you note. My poor mother tried her best, but sending out thank-you notes….well, it just never took. I dislike the sense of obligation that accompanies a gift or a good deed these days. A…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":198,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[10,4,5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-116","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-by-padmini-mangunta","category-personal-ethics","category-social-ethics"],"yoast_head":"\n