I just finished up my Letter of the Month for March. Those joy-filed envelopes are now happily flying their way on the angel-winged miracle that is the postal service. Soon they will arrive in mailboxes around the world to turn frowns upside down.
I like to imagine me from my prior life as a subscriber to the Letter of the Month. Back when I lived in Los Angeles and worked in an advertising agency. I arrive at the mailbox at the end of the day. I am tired and hungry. I have a heavy computer bag slung over my shoulder. I have a box of Chinese food in one hand, my mailbox key in the other.
I take a big sigh, knowing the visa bill is due to arrive. I open the mailbox and yank out the pile. I toss the flyers, some of which were actually created in my advertising agency. I exclaim, “They went with that stupid headline again?” I think back to writing alternate headlines for this piece. Evidently an exercise in futility since my headlines were so clearly ignored. I shake my head as I toss the flyers in recycling. I chuck the Chico’s catalog, too, and wonder how I ever got on their mailing list.
And then I see the Letter of the Month. “Mmmmmm” I say. It’s here.
I walk my load up to my apartment, drop everything inside the door except the letter. I collapse onto the couch and open it.
I am transported to a life in Paris, where I meander down cobblestone streets and duck into bakeries. Where I sip wine with friends at cafés as we nibble our way through a cheese tray. Where I say things like, Bonjour and Ca va? And people reply back in kind. Oui! Ca va.
As I lay on the couch, I decide that it’s time to do this thing. Time to take the plunge. Time to start living the dreams. It’s time to let myself go. I whip out my notebook and start jotting down the steps it will take to get there.
The Chinese food grows cold.
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