Confession time: I’m a creature of convenience. Not the kind that meticulously plans out every minute, optimizing for peak efficiency. No, I’m the kind that eyes the overflowing laundry basket and thinks, “Hmm, maybe that’s a job for Future Me,” then immediately opens a food delivery app. Because, let’s be real, the entire premise of these glorious modern marvels – be it Instacart, DoorDash, Uber Eats, or the burgeoning legion of "someone else doing it for you" services – is the noble act of outsourcing the mundane.
My brain is perpetually on the hunt for ways to avoid actual thought exertion. And grocery shopping? That, is a special kind of exertion. It’s not just the physical act of pushing a squeaky cart down an aisle designed to funnel you past every impulse buy. It’s the mental gymnastics of remembering if I actually have enough butter, the existential dread of picking the right avocado, and the sheer societal pressure of pretending I’m not judging your questionable outfit choices in the canned goods aisle. (Don't get me started on your shoes.)
So, when the gods of Silicon Valley bestowed upon us the power to simply tap a screen and have a stranger brave the fluorescent purgatory on our behalf, I wept tears of joy. This, I thought, is true liberation!
The entire point, the glorious, unspoken agreement, is that I don't want to do it. I have neither the time, nor the desire, nor the emotional fortitude to engage with the actual process. I want a magical portal to open, disgorge my provisions and then quietly recede. My involvement in this transaction, ideally, should be limited to the initial inputting of my order and the final transfer of goods. And perhaps a polite nod when the doorbell rings. (Let's be honest: we watch through the blinds and wait for the delivery person to leave before actually collecting our goods so we don't have to interact. You know you do it. Bitch, please.)
Then, inevitably, it happens.
The notification pings. My phone lights up with a message that, despite my years of practice, still sends a tiny shiver down my spine.
“Hi, this is Chad, your shopper for today! I’m just starting your order at Sprout’s Organic Goodness Emporium. If there’s anything you’d like to add or any special instructions, just let me know! I’ll keep you updated on my progress as I go!”
Oh, Chad. Sweet, well-meaning, utterly oblivious Chad. My immediate, uncharitable internal monologue goes something like this: “Chad, my man, I appreciate your enthusiasm. I truly do. But the entire point of this arrangement is that I don’t want to know. I’ve already done the excruciating mental labor of creating the list. I’ve decided I want the organic, cage-free, hand-massaged eggs. I don’t want to add anything. I don’t want special instructions. And for the love of all that is holy, please do not keep me updated on your progress.”
I’m picturing Chad, phone in hand, beaming as he texts me from the produce section. “Just admiring these lovely bell peppers! Do you prefer the red, yellow or orange for your fajitas?” Chad, I ordered peppers. Just… peppers. Any color will do, as long as they’re, you know, pepper-shaped. I don’t need a play-by-play of your heroic quest navigating aisles 1 through 17. This isn’t a buddy movie; it’s a transaction. A glorious, hands-off transaction.
I understand, truly, that these lovely folks are just trying to do a good job. They’re aiming for five stars. They’re hoping for a generous tip. They’ve probably been coached by the app overlords to be overly communicative – “Engage your customer! Build rapport! Make them feel valued!” And in a world screaming for human connection, I get it. We’re all a little starved for interaction, even if it’s over the finer points of ripe versus unripe bananas.
But here’s the thing, Chad: we’re not friends. We’re not building a relationship that will stand the test of time, sharing our innermost thoughts over a shared love of artisanal cheese. This is a one-time thing. A professional exchange of goods and services. You do the tedious heavy lifting, I pay you for it (more than I should but let's leave the debate about fair pay from billion-dollar companies for another day). It’s beautiful in its simplicity. Adding a running commentary feels less like good customer service and more like a forced, digital pen-pal situation I didn’t sign up for.
Now, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not a monster. If there’s a genuine crisis, an actual dilemma that requires my input, then by all means, light up my phone like a Christmas tree. If the store is out of the specific gluten-free, organic, unicorn-horn-infused oat milk I requested, and the only alternative is regular cow's milk (the horror!), then yes, please, text away. (Although, I did select "no substitutions" so not following that instruction will also deduct star points.) Or if the store is spontaneously combusting and my order of frozen peas is now charcoal, I’d appreciate a heads-up. These are significant changes. These warrant communication -- or, you know, just refund that shit.
But if you’re only letting me know you’ve "arrived at checkout" or that you’re "on your way," my eyes glaze over. My internal voice is screaming, “Just bring me the goods, Chad! Be the silent hero I need, not the chatty sidekick!”
So, to all the wonderful, hardworking shoppers and drivers out there, hear my humble plea. Continue to be efficient, continue to be diligent and continue to ensure my avocado is perfectly ripe.
But please, for the love of my sanity, assume I’ve delegated the entire show. Trust that I trust you. And unless the metaphorical grocery store is on fire, feel free to just do your job, ring my doorbell, and let me resume my blissful, work-free existence. My gratitude will be delivered via tip, not via text.