There it sat in the mailroom a month ago: my package. It was the color of sand, festooned with ""Thinking of you!"" and ""I love you!"" stickers with the always-cherished emblem ""priority mail.""
""What could it be?"" I thought. The possibilities were endless. ""Candy, popcorn... COOKIES?!""
Cookies!!! My parents sent me cookies!
After an unusually rough day of two power lectures, 10 too many Power Point slides and slightly burned toast for breakfast, I couldn't have felt more deserving of the delivery before me.
Grabbing it from the mailroom, I bounded up the stairs, darted into my apartment and threw the package on my couch. Without a moment to think, I picked up a pair of scissors and savagely cut the living hell out of the packaging until all I could see was the shimmery bubbled plastic encasing my ""priority"" present.
With the stab of my scissors, I cut through the wrapping and, and—
Mittens?
My parents sent me mittens?
What the hell?!
Surrounded by tattered tape and bits of cardboard, I helplessly attempted to understand why. What made me so undeserving of sugary, delectable, homemade goodness? I can't eat mittens. What the hell am I gonna do with these?
My thoughts raced as I picked up the mittens with the kind of disgust reserved for a clogged, overflowing toilet. Perhaps I talked about myself too much on the phone last week? Did I tell them about my grade in physics? Did they see my Halloween pictures?
But then, my mind rewound to...
Freshman year, October
I received a triple-sectioned tin of not just white cheddar popcorn, but butter and caramel. Not only that, the tin was Halloween decorated with goblins, ghosts and witches galore. If I could, I would have eaten that, too.
Freshman year, Valentine's Day
A red-spotted stuffed dog, a chocolate rose and two boxes of dark chocolate showed up in my mailbox. Even a handmade card. I never felt more loved.
Sophomore year, Christmas
Rush delivery of two batches of oatmeal, chocolate chip, peanut butter cookies. Christmas-tree shaped. Baked to perfection. Well done.
Sophomore year, Spring Finals
A box full of caramel covered popcorn, two of my favorite movies and a squishy pillow—the ideal remedies for a long-sufferer of procrastination.
However, come the following year, the tide turned, as I witnessed a severe downgrade take place before my very eyes. In one year alone, there was (at least) a 91 percent drop in packaged goodies.
Clothing replaced cookies.
Mass-produced stickers replaced handmade cards.
Two packages a year became the sad, pathetic... one.
Junior year, October
A scarf, a pair of socks and a sweater that stunk of mothballs appeared in a box in the mailroom. There was no card. There was no candy. There were no cookies.
I tried to shrug it off, assume it was a mistake and that another three-sectioned tin of popcorn would appear come Christmas. I reasoned with myself, attempted to usher in rational thoughts and some good ol' logic: ""They want me to be warm. They want me to survive the cold. Loving parents."" But when a Christmas package failed to appear, I knew something was up.
The next semester, I studied abroad in London, where sending a package of perishables would take a week and cost the equivalent of at least eight Jimmy John's sandwiches. They were off the hook—for a couple of months.
But when I received the fateful Mitten Package two weeks ago, my senior year, I knew the days of glorified deliveries were over. My parents didn't need to coddle me, remind me how much I was missed and show their love through the sending of goodies that could make my ass the size of Kansas.
Nahhh. They knew I was older now, more well-adjusted, more mature.
Two days ago, however, I received another package in the mail without a return address. It was fastened in duct tape in a modest, sand-colored envelope. Sighing, I opened the package slowly, accustomed to the delivery disappointments of years passed.
BAM! There they were: cookies. Two big canisters of oatmeal raisin cookies. The size of apples, no, baseballs,no, grapefruits!! Half-healthy, half-junky as can be. Beautiful.
And inside, underneath a Thanksgiving napkin, sat a perfectly handmade card from the one person who believes I will never grow up: Grandma.
What's the best package you've received in the mail? Let me know at gleicher@wisc.edu.
