Hi, my name is Andrea. I am a clipper. Clippers are always on the lookout for information in newspapers and magazines that they feel friends, relatives and acquaintances cannot live without. Clipping is an addiction. Some specialists have gone so far as to call it a disease. I would have to agree with them as I know I inherited it from my father.
     Dad couldn’t read a newspaper or periodical without scissors and marker in hand. Every week I received a mailing from him—the fattest letter-sized envelope you could imagine—stuffed with articles from local newspapers, the Wall Street Journal, Finance and Commerce and a number of magazines. Each of my four siblings was sent a like-sized envelope, too, but none were filled with exactly the same clippings.
     While everyone received stories on parenting because we all were raising children, each of us took in information pertinent to our own profession, also. Dad notified me, the car salesperson, about factory slowdowns, recalls, and consumer comparisons. My father had no faith in my money management skills; periodically, I was warned against home equity loans and mortgage refinancing.
     Because my children were involved in after school sports, pertinent pieces about youth athletics were stuffed into my weekly allotment. One of my sisters had five children and also ran a day care business; her mailbox overflowed with child-related precautions. Not that she had time to read any of it. None of us did. Often, when I saw the chubby paper container with Dad’s writing on the front, I let out a groan. Too much reading; too little time.
     Why, you may ask, would I carry on this legacy? Subject friends and family to the same burden? I’ve taken a good hard look at myself and I don’t know the answer. But I’m powerless to stop. My list of recipients keeps escalating. People I barely know who have mentioned a subject in passing are put on my mailing list.
     They join others. Like my writing friend who is working on a memoir. I fear she can’t compose her recollections and reflections without USA Today’s Thursday book reviews. Like my high school granddaughter whom I send college success stories and helpful hints for perfect SAT tests and college entrance essays.
     When another friend told me he had met someone from China and would soon visit her, I couldn’t stop myself. So much is being written about China. In no time at all, I had a packet stuffed and ready to go. Thanking me may have been his biggest mistake.
     My mania began slowly, not long after my father died. I’ll never forget my first time—that heady feeling when I drove to the Post Office—the euphoria I experienced knowing I had just provided someone a lifeline of information. It wasn’t long until I needed that thrill more often.
     I sought it out at copy centers where I photocopied articles so I could reach more people, enabling me to feed my habit more often. To a clipper, there’s no rush like the sound of the metal mailbox lid as it slams shut.
     With the latest postal rate increase, my habit is getting expensive. Not to mention time-consuming. I’ll admit it: I need help. There have to be others with the same problem. Could there be a cure—a rehab program for clippers?