You've Got Mail!

I hold my breath as I peer into the darkened cubicle, hopeing against hope to catch a glimpse of something other than empty space. Do my eyes decieve me? Is there something in there? I pull out my keys and in one daily-practiced move, the tiny mailbox door is open to reveal… stop. Look at yourself. You’re on the edge of your seat, living vicariously through another person’s ficticious account of possibly getting mail. If so, you are officially mail deprived. And I don’t think there’s a 12 step program for that.

Last year, when I was a freshman, the mail situation was improved. First of all, it was the first year away from home, so my mom was bound to miss me and send me something. Me being the oldest child, it was a novelty to send stuff to someone at college, although it wore off quickly. Plus, last year my roommate and I shared a mailbox, effectively doubling the chances of the box having mail in it. Even if it wasn’t for me, it was still pretty exciting to see that freshly delivered envelope waiting to spread its sealed joy to whoever’s name adorned the address label. Regardless of who the letter was for, if I made it to the mailbox first, I was the one who got to triumphantly carry it up the stairs: postmarked proof that the outside world knew we existed.

This year, though, I’m on my own. If there’s nothing for me, there’s nothing at all. And campus mail the fliers that everyone gets don’t really count as true mail. No stamps on those – they’re quasi-mail. Bills only count for slightly more. Sure, someone cares that you’re alive, but only because they want your money. Letters are always exciting, especially when they contain cash- er, news about your loved ones. But the ultimate holy grail of the United States Postal Service on college campuses across the country are – you guessed it – care packages.

Campus mail envelopes are sub-atomic particles of affection when compared to the amount of love-in-a-box a care package contains. The contents of the box barely matter. I know people who would be content with a package containing five bucks, some packaging peanuts, and an blank Zip disk. Then there’s the people whose mothers send them homemade salsa or chocolate chip cookies. Fortnuately, my roommate has one of those salsa mothers, and my mom’s one of the cookie types. So even if the daily mailbox ego maker or breaker ends in tragedy, I can drown my sorrows in the spoils of care packages past. Care packages… the gift that keeps on giving.

**This article may be sent home, hopefully inspiring a reply. Remember -pity mail is better than no mail.**