The Arrival of the Mail Is Not That Exciting. Or So I Keep Telling Myself.

I started telecommuting this week.  It is glorious.  My commute is the ten second walk from the bedroom to the kitchen table.  The dress code is very, very casual.  And perhaps best of all, I do not have to navigate the mire of office politics (I was never very good at that game).

Things are, however, a little quiet.  You know what tends to be the most exciting part of my telecommuting day?  When the postman delivers the mail.

When I hear our metal mail slot open and bang shut, I tell myself: Self, you are not excited.  It's just the mail.  Stay where you are. 

But this is a lie.  I am very, very excited by the mail's arrival.  Like a small terrier who must bark at the mailman, I want to run to the front door immediately and investigate.  I'm afraid that one of these days, I will start barking at the mailman - and that event will signal thebeginning of the end.

So I have implemented a strict rule: telecommuters must wait a full two minutes before investigating the mail's arrival.  (I break this rule nearly every day).

Yesterday, however, I heard the mail arrive and then I totally forgot about it for at least fifteen minutes.  I congratulated myself as if this was some sort of noble achievement, like discovering the cure for cancer.  Today, I am hoping I can stretch the wait to a full half hour.  If that happens, I'm sure I'll be awarded a Nobel Prize for Telecommuting.