I got back from Florida yesterday. The entire flight and the entire cab ride, I thought about the box that UPS said was at my building. Until I touched the quilts that were diverted, lost-ish, and otherwise frightened out there in the Big Bad World, I could not rest. I was picking at my cuticles, which means I was truly in crisis. It’s a bad/weird habit that calms me down when I’m freaking out.
When I got home, I beelined to the receiving room. The state of the box was terrifying; corners were chewed, quilts showed through on three sides. But my quilts were there. Safe. And I am happy. Sending quilts will forever now be scarier than it was before, but what can you do? Well, a few things: I can reinforce the box. Sprinkle holy water all over it. Insure it. Raindance around it, maybe. Hire a Chicago bike messenger, maybe; those guys are fleet of foot and deadly when crossed.
Get your cheeseboard out because I’m about to serve up some cheese: this is what I wanted for Christmas, Santa. I appreciate it.