Posting things to yourself always feels a bit odd. It's the grownup's version of the only child's fantasized game of catch, in which preternatural fleet-footedness allows the single player to slip his hand under a ball he has only just thrown. The adult can drop the package off on the way to the airport and race it to their mutual destination. You will pass it with ease and, if you are sharp-eared, spring up to open the door before the mailman even reaches the steps. Surface mail is nowhere near as fast. You will have unpacked, caught up on sleep, seen friends, attended movies, and maybe half-forgotten posting it by the time it arrives.
Strangely, the closest analog to the impossible ball-toss is the slowest. Don't put it in the mail at all. Lock it up somewhere. Go about your life, probably several hundred miles away. Procrastinate. Then get around to finding the appropriate weekend and drive back there. Open it all up and take out what you put inside. Once it's in your hand, you'll be amazed that the thrower and the catcher could be one and the same person.
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