The postal worker wore gloves

I live within a few blocks of a post office. That's great. That will alleviate an insignificant amount of inconvenience in my life. I went there today to mail a package, and one of the three postal workers at the windows was wearing big blue rubber gloves. I guess that startled me in a way. In a meeting at work this afternoon, one of my co-workers joked about the coffee creamer being anthrax. And my mom loves to tell this joke about how she has recently appointed my father official letter opener in our home. She was telling Martìn that joke and apparently kept mispronouncing anthrax "Amtrak." Martìn thought that was cute. I hate that the world seems to be in disarray. I don't really factor it into my thinking regularly, but when you see a guy at the post office wearing big blue rubber gloves, it gives you pause.

I have to drive back down to San Diego tonight. I'm not really looking forward to it, but I have no reason to dread it. The worst is behind me. From this vantage point, everything ahead looks almost disconcertingly pleasant. Seemingly endless expanses of sunny fields of non-allergenic flowers and whatnot. I don't barrel forward into this future of mine. I think if I am to use the appropriate terminology, it would be correct to say that I traipse.