I’ve watched Michelle Corley grow from a grade-schooler to a woman of the world.
In the mid-90s, she drew the attention of the Girl Scouts and the local elementary schools. They admired her skills and accomplishments and offered her more opportunities than she could have ever simultaneously pursued. That’s what happens when you strive to reach your goals and attain them, I suppose.
As the 2000s dawned, Michelle won scholarship offers, high school enrollment enticements, and job training come-ons. There were so many; how could she possibly have chosen? It’s hard to pick from among various offers when one has so much available.
Following those opportunities, the colleges came calling. From UCLA to Harvard, Carleton to Tulane. It seemed that her high school grades and test scores qualified her to attend any private institution she liked. Her dreams awaited. I felt quite pleased for her.
A period of silence followed Michelle’s college years. During that time, my own life evolved. People came; people went; my son enrolled in and graduated from college, and went off to graduate school after a year of reflection in which, it seems, he found and embraced his calling.
And now, Michelle has made the big time: She’s apparently doing so well that Estate Planning attorneys seek her business. I’m slightly jealous. But mostly, I see Michelle’s progress as marking the passage of time at my home. From the local grade school and club invitations to the offer for will and trust creation, Michelle’s life has evolved just as mine has over the last 21 years. I hold the proof in my hands when I open the mailbox.
I don’t know who Michelle is. Or if she even exists.
Her mail has been coming to my home since I bought it. I know she did not live there before me. I bought the house from Rick and Cheryl Kannoy, and they were only the second owners. The first did not share my surname. Michelle never lived in my house and might be an imaginary person, but I have watched her grow, and achieve, and accomplish — at least in the minds of the arbiters of junk mail. I used to attempt to return the mail but the letter carriers would not take it. And so I kept it, from some idle or prurient interest. I’d open it, read it, and eventually put it in the recycle box.
Michelle seems to have had a better life than I. She’s done everything one is supposed to do. She’s been a Girl Scout, attended church, done well on the ACT, gone to college, gotten good grades, launched her career, and joined a country club (one of many who offered her membership, judging by the mail which she received at my house). She’s been financially successful in ways that society tells us we all should be — in ways that I have not. I might be slightly jealous. But for what it’s worth, I’m proud of her.
