It’s okay to set limits.

The note from my postmaster said there will be three attempts at delivering a package after which it will be returned to the sender. Every baseball pitcher relies on the rule of three strikes, and shrugs his or her shoulders to the cap of four balls. 

When I enter a parking garage there is signage telling me the maximum height my vehicle can be. Any taller and things get messy. 

I’ve decided to institute a limit of times I will float the same mental comment. Six. If I have rehashed the yammer like a voice mail on repeat half a dozen times it is over. Kaput. 

When I see an old classmate and it spurs the threadbare line about forty year old behavior, I strike it. If I pass a friend who shortchanged me on a sewing job eight years ago and a worn out response from my lower self clogs up my attention, I return it to the sender. If the same stale complaint pops up when I run into an old neighbor I let it sail on by. 

There are plenty more refreshing things to think about. If I only make room.