My life situation at the moment has ensured that I spend every lunch hour for the next two weeks at the post office.
Needless to say, Mama is not pleased about this.
So, here’s what I do when I’m standing in line under the blinking fluorescent lights, my arms full of bulging, incredibly heavy boxes containing all of my worldly possessions, staring down the sour-faced postal workers behind the bullet-proof glass, a bead of sweat running down my back as LA hits 90 degrees and counting. I daydream. It seems safer than cutting my jugular with the “wrong” mailing label.
Today, I daydreamed plantations. In case you were wondering.
I have a serious love-affair going on with the South.
It has something to with my feelings about manners, I think. I’m a sucker for politeness. You can have a third eye in the middle of your forehead and talons for fingers but if you hold open the door for me? Baby, I’m yours. Better yet, hold it open and say, “After you” and immediately I’ll start picking out curtains.
That and drooping, weeping willows. And those curved arches of oak trees. And affectations like “Honey blossom.”
I know there’s some seriously terrible history surrounding these palatial estates. You shouldn’t forget that when you stare lustily at these columns. Never forget that.
But is it so wrong to yearn for a spot in a comfy chair on a wrap-around porch, as the sun starts to fade and the crickets start to sing and there’s a melting sort of heaviness in the air, the kind of heat that requires a cold glass and mounds of fresh ice and the lingering smell of mint and jasmine?
All is still. Even the post office can’t hurt me here…