I'm usually gone to school when the mail truck arrives. I don't have office hours on Fridays, so I'm sitting here, checking my email while Charlotte colors pictures on the floor behind me, when it pulls around the bend. "The mail is here!" I squeal to Charlotte, who says "yep," unimpressed, and returns to her coloring. I am waiting impatiently for the mailman to unload everything and leave before I throw on my shoes and coat and run out to check.

Last month, I finished the final of my thirteen Ph.D. applications. And while it is still a bit early to be expecting responses, I am a woman obsessed. Every phone call, every email, every thin envelope or fat 9x12 could be a potential yes or no. Every time I approach the mail box, mail key in hand, my heart starts racing. This really isn't healthy.

***

Well, I'm back. Nothing. Junk mail never seems so junky as when you're waiting for something really important.