Small town life puts a special bubble around you. We didn’t get out much as kids, except to run errands with our mom in a larger, but still small-ish town. Orthodontist appointments, groceries, Pizza Hut buffet, and if we were lucky, a visit to the music store.

Contests from cereal boxes, Columbia House subscription forms, magazine inserts for free Banana Republic catalogs, and addresses from Teen Beat to swoon-worthy heart throbs were our way to connect to the world. Except, we weren’t allowed to send any Columbia House cards, ever. Don’t you dare was warning enough. I filled out my selections and address anyway, but it never went in the mail. I’d imagine life with endless cassettes.

Any letters that were exchanged were slipped to friends between classes in that fancy 80s wrap around fold. If we sent anything, it was lost forever, but it was fun imagining winning a lifetime supply of corn flakes. Little Debbies. Willy Wonka candy.

One day, there was a surprise. I arrived home after school, dropping my backpack on a chair at the kitchen table. Everyone else gathered around the buzz of the kitchen, willing dinner to be served, hot tortillas flying off the griddle and onto a cloth dish towel to keep them warm.

“You got something in the mail,” Mom mentioned between the rolling pin sliding across the counter, flattening balls of dough.

“Me?” I looked through the stack and found something with my name on it. I didn’t request anything. Perplexed, I flip the envelope over and retrieve a letter. Brochures I ignore are stuffed in the envelope, but I place them on the table in favor of the letter.

It’s addressed to me and I start reading aloud.

“…bedwetting is not a problem you should be ashamed of…”

“BED WETTING?! I don’t wet the bed!”

“Bed wetting?” Mom asks.

I look at the brochure full of resources to rectify the problem. People of all ages…

“Where did this come from and why does it have MY NAME on it?”

I hear giggling. It gradually grows into full-blown laughter. My younger sister can’t contain herself. “It was me; I did it!”

“What did you do?” Mom asks.

“I filled out the card,” hysterical laughter.

“At the orthodontist’s office, when you had an appointment. I didn’t think they’d send anything!”

“Thanks a lot!” I scream only like a first-born annoyed by a sibling teen can scream. And then I started crying of embarrassment. Someone, somewhere, sent me mail because they think I’m a bed wetter. How humiliating.

Everyone else laughed. Mom kept making tortillas and brushed it off. “Throw it away, it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re gonna get it!”