Outgoing mail after a one-day holiday…9 total.

I’m not generally very numerically-oriented.  Math was always my worst subject and it was only thanks to Gregory M. helping tutor me in high school that I made it through Alegebra and Geometry.  Even so,  I  have one small but happy counting ritual.  After my nightly meditation — after I’ve written my letters to whomever made a difference that day, I allow myself to get OCD.  In the morning as I’m still stumbling around with my cup of coffee, in my lacy beige nightgown and a thin beige cashmere robe, before I blunder outside no matter what the weather to place them gently in the Army green mailbox, I count the letters.

This was a nice stack, about nine, including a newspaper for my mother-in-law full of “Fall Previews” — films due in the theaters soon.  (Note the black lace tape holding down the back edge.  I’m having fun with adhesives these days).  Excuse me, savvy voyeurs, for not knowing how to get the picture right side up. I know you really want to read the addresses!

Does a day without a mailman diminish your happiness, just a little bit, like it deflates mine?  And shouldn’t we be less sexist and call it the carrier a “mail person”?