Two Saturdays ago I woke up, and like a little kid on Christmas, couldn't go back to sleep. I peeked out the window, and saw the mail lady at the bottom of our complex, filling up all the mail boxes with bills, letters, and magazines. I watched the process intently, waiting for her to close the boxes and get on her way. Finally she was done; she climbed in her mail truck and started driving up the hill towards our house. I sprang out of bed, threw on a sweatshirt, and bolted for the door. The doorbell rang, and I gave it a solid three seconds before I ripped the door open, hoping not to seem too eager. The mail carrier, dressed in her standard mail blues, handed me the box, and I clutched at it. On the inside, I was thinking "MY PRECIOOOOUUUS," but on the outside, I was all smiles.
"Do you have a really cool doll in there?" she asked me.
"Uh," I said, wondering why she thought my package would have a doll (of all things) in it. Then I realized: the package had a Dolly Couture label on it.
I laughed. "No, it's actually my wedding dress," I told her as I resisted the urge to run inside, slam the door and tear the box open (which is exactly what I did about ten seconds after she walked away).
Once inside, I kicked Mr. Goodlaff out of the bedroom and began to open the box.
But here, we must pause.
