Mail come?

One of my uncles told me that as a little kid, I had an intense preoccupation with the arrival of the mail, often demanding in sparse kid syntax, "Mail come?"  And then scowling when the answer was "no."

I'm feeling like that today.  Most of my reasons to look forward to things lately are mail-related.  Netflix, or perhaps my inconstant postman, has conspired to leave me film-less for three whole days, and out of desperation I've even considered re-watching some of the less-than-stellar offerings in our DVD archive.  Like Blade, for God's sake.  (When you consider inviting Wesley Snipes in a vampire role into your head, you are truly far gone.  All I can say in my own defense is that this movie was not only free, but we rejected it the first time it was offered from well-meaning Florida friends who had an extra copy.)

Amazon.com also owes me 17 used books that make up most of my MFA reading list.

(I hope books are tax-deductible because they're a bitch to pack and move.  And find room for.  We've already maxed out our two eight-foot bookcases in the living room, and until we move into a house with an actual food pantry, the IKEA bookcase in the dining room is out of commission for being packed with beans and macaroni.  And since I now occasionally cook, I can't pull my college trick of keeping books in the oven.  Today is the day for long parenthetical asides!)

There are also ridiculously generous and exciting parent-generated treats en route, so that's yet another reason I'm getting all toddler-y about the mail.  Mostly, though, Pants himself is due back in exactly one week and it really feels like he's some highly anticipated birthday present that got lost in the mail.  I can't imagine that he's doing anything out there in the world besides waiting on shelf for someone to find him, read his label, and send him to me.  I'm tired of this long-distance crap, this waiting on short emails, this stacking his side of the bed with extra pillows so I don't feel adrift at night.  I'm tired of being the sole performer of chores around here-- not that it's so much work, or that the work is unsatisfying per se, it's just a constant reminder of loneliness that I have to remember to do all of this and that no one says, right then, "Hey!  You mowed!"  

The worst part is that I know these short detachments are nothing, that they don't even count in the larger reckoning of the total time Pants will be time zones away from me.  Everyone talks about the deployment, which is now 7 months instead of 6, as when the guys are really and truly "gone."  This part, the  periodic month-long work-ups, somehow doesn't count, or anyway isn't the stuff truly worthy of moaning.  I guess it's like comparing a particularly heinous delay in a doctor's waiting room to solitary confinement, but I can't help adding it up to a truly depressing total and wondering how long my patience will last.  There are only so many times you can flip through Reader's Digest, after all.

For now, though, I wait.  Last night I filled the time by going on a long run through town that started out as just a short trot and got pulled out like taffy when I kept realizing at every corner that I wasn't tired yet.  Then when I finally was tired, I passed an old couple in the blue light of dusk and the man called out, "Boy, you sure are ambitious!" and for some reason that fired me up for an additional mile-long detour.  I've kept the inserts form my Mud Run shoes (heavily scrubbed, or course) and they seemed to have retained their infusion of patience and energy.  Or maybe it was the old man-- the thing I love about races is that it's finally OK for people, strangers, to talk to you and cheer you on while you run, and the boost I get from that in incredible.  I wish I could give it back to the solo runners I see when I'm driving, especially the worn out looking moms up at 5:30 when I leave for work.  But for someone who routinely scowls at cars who honk at me, I know the gesture can be misinterpreted.  

Without realizing it, I've stumbled across a metaphor here-- that with help and a little well-timed community support, you can push yourself to great feats of endurance, both in running and in waiting.  But instead of feeling enlightened and relieved, I confess I feel annoyed.  This is the platitude I've heard so many times before from other Navy wives, and I sit and smile and nod when really what I want to do is shake them, shake all of us and shout, "Yeah, but when exactly did we decide this was acceptable?"