Sheisty Grand Tetons
this is not a guilt trip
The pleasure of receiving actual physical mail is so great I cannot begin to describe it. Perhaps this indicates that I am a century (or two) behind Today in my tastes, but there is just something electric about receiving envelopes, like little missionaries of love and humor, touched by human hands, written upon by real inky pens, licked by slobbery tongues… or so I imagine that you, the writing public, is literally salivating to send me mail. (not.)
I like how wanton envelopes seem after they’ve been opened. They gape. They yawn. They are used up, finished. I like carrying my mail home unopened from the ICES office, half an hour walking in the hot sun, with the Precious in the bag bumping my hip. I like holding out on those beckoning letters, waiting until after finishing the day’s scheduled crucial tasks, making a cup of tea or Nestomalt and savoring the sunset along with the letter. I have a letter opener but I prefer to lightly abuse my right index finger in picking-open the spitsealed little tease.
Reading is another experience entirely. I don’t think I can describe it in a public forum. Yes, I have a slightly scandalous relationship with mail.