Deliver Me

I have fallen madly in love with the postman. Allow me to explain.

Last June when I first moved here, I received several packages in the mail (no pun intended … yet). Scrambling for a t-shirt and pair of shorts to answer the knock beating at my door, I was not prepared for the six feet and two inches of undeniable gorgeousness waiting on the other side.

Brown haired, tanned, and exquisitely toned, he looked as if he had turned down a worldwide underwear campaign for Armani to pursue a life-long dream delivering mail. Beaming with pride, he bore the industry-size bag across his chest as if it was armour; the noble look in his eyes suggested his horse was waiting outside. Smiling, he ever-so-gently placed the bubble-wrapped envelope in my left hand and asked me how I was.

Weak in the knees, I felt as if I had just been swept off my feet and carried over the threshold into a life of early mornings, fifty-cent stamps, and killer legs muscles.

Speechless, I replied “good” and then watched him walk back out of my life, just as fast as he knocked into it.

Weeks went by and I heard nothing from il postino. Eagerly, I checked my box (tee hee) each day hoping that alongside the flyers and cell phone bills there would be an invitation for dinner with a return address. But after enough time had passed, I put up my white flag, and resigned myself to a fate grounded in reality rather than loosely tied in fantasy. That was until yesterday.

Because the water is turned off in my apartment (see Shower Power), after one cup of coffee yesterday I had to haul ass to the Starbucks down the street to use the men’s. Practically sprinting down the stairs (desperate times call for desperate measures) I flung the door open into the lobby and practically crashed right into him. He smiled (one of those gigantic smiles sound-tracked by ‘when I think about you I touch myself’) and said hello again. Not even thinking, I readjusted my sunglasses, gave him some nonsensical reply, and ran out the front door.

Here's hoping that next time my phone bill will come with more than just long-distance charges. Kicking myself over another cup of coffee, and a 230 calorie-Strawberry Smoothie approximately eight minutes later, I decided that I was no longer going to run from fate but instead grab it by the balls. And so, with that in my mind, I have developed a strategic plan that essentially involves mailing myself packages in hopes that one day I might actually get one. (Told you it was coming.)

Like Cher sends herself flowers and chocolates to pick up Christian, I will send myself envelopes-painted-pink and boxes labeled with not just my address, but my phone number, personal interests and favourite dining spots as well. Rest assured, the next time he arrives just before eleven I will be ready. I will open the door in nothing but my 100% cotton Gap housecoat, backlit by marked down tea-lights and holding a rocks glass measured with two ounces of apple juice.

Naturally, I will keep you posted on the results.