I have an unhealthy obsession with mail. All morning I wonder if the mail has come and all afternoon I wonder, "have I have gotten the mail." (And I usually remember that I did.) When I come home from being out I check my mailbox, excited to see what the postman has left me. If I've been gone for a weekend, I can almost not contain my excitement that I get to get mail on a Sunday.
Something is wrong with me.
It is as if the mailbox holds a gift, because well, you just never know. This weekend I had several credit card offers, a magazine or two for Hubby, something from a mail-order flower group, an invitation to enter Princess in a pageant, a wedding invitation, a bridal shower invitation, and a baby shower invitation. I consider that a bust. You'd think that would be good mail, wouldn't you? No bills. Something with my name hand-written on the envelope. Could be worse.
But a couple of weeks ago I got two different cards in the mail. Yes it was near my anniversary, but it was all about me....and Hubby, but he doesn't race me to the box usually. Very nice. I must write to my grandmother more frequently, she always writes back.
Of course lately it really has been Christmas when I get to the box. Buried underneath the credit card offers and bills and real-estate solicitations and Dell sales books and nonsense, every so often, there is a padded manilla envelope with a treasure inside. Someone sent me their treasure, their written word, and they value my opinion (which they hope is good, of course) enough that they want me to read it and talk about it here. Or they hope that YOU value my opinion enough at least.
What was once a hope for the random, pre-addressed thank you note from my latest shower has now become almost a legitimate passion. Sometimes the box holds the goods.
One of my recent mailbox finds I'll talk about soon: