It is school-acceptance season here at the house of the Holbs, and sadly there have yet to be any actual school-acceptances, only nos and no-thankyous and four wait-lists, which might perk some of us up a bit, but only until we remember that a wait-list is like when you ask someone to marry you and they tell you they want to think about it and we all know that can never mean anything good.
Today as I was napping on the sofa I had the sudden inspiration that there was an acceptance letter, right then, that very minute, in the mail downstairs. I was so convinced that it was really, truly there (and I knew just what school it was from!), that I actually got dressed and pulled my hair back, found a decent pair of shoes (such a hassle!) and went downstairs to check the mailbox.
(Do you feel the suspense building?)
When the elevator dinged! I saw to my dismay that the friendly mail-dude had just arrived and was just now starting to sort the mail. I sighed. It was dramatic.
Finally he was about finished and, making small-talk (awkward), inquired of my apartment number. (“Yo, what apahtment you in?”)
I told him, and he handed me a stack of mail. I scanned the pack and knew immediately that there were no acceptances there.
So I went back upstairs to my grumpy puppy with the cone on his head. And we both felt pretty silly.
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