I love mail. 

I love opening the mailbox, peering into the shadowy postal depths, and seeing a stack of envelopes. 

I should really stop loving this, because it’s been a long time that any of the mail I’ve received was any good.  It’s always bills, junk mail, catalogues for places that we can’t afford to shop at, free address labels from foundations that really should have used that label money for their foundations, and bills for the neighbors that accidentally got stuffed in our box.  I did get a wedding invitation the other day (Jennipher with a PH is getting married!!), but other than that, it’s all crap, I tell you.

Come to think of it though, why would I expect any good mail?  I never send any.  You have to send mail to get mail.  You have to be a good letter writer to get good letters. 

So I sat down the other day to write my grandmother a letter.  I wanted to send her some pictures of her great-grandchildren.  I was two lousy sentences into the letter when my hand started hurting with unbearable cramps!  Well this is strange, I thought.  I remember I used to be able to write essays…long essays, by hand.  Sheesh, that was only…

Twelve years ago.

I started thinking about it to make sure.  The best estimate I can come up with is, it’s been twelve years since I’ve written anything down, other than a grocery list.  What happened twelve years ago to make me stop writing?  Was I in a tragic pen accident?  Did I develop a serious allergy to stationery?

You know the answer to this one.  I got a computer twelve years ago.  And I probably got a printer, too.  The muscles in my hands have been retrained to type like a madwoman, but they have been rendered useless when faced with a pencil.  This is quite pathetic.  I still hold a deep fondness for paper, unique pens, cool stationery like the kind you buy at Papyrus, etc.  But why bother?  I’m hand-icapped.

So I typed out a letter to my grandmother, printed it out, and signed in on the bottom.  It felt weird and too formal, as if I was sending in communication to my attorney or something.  But the hand cramps left me no other choice.