The Amazon Man Cometh

It was Monday afternoon when the Ring camera chimed, signaling that someone—or something—was at our door. Our favorite bunny usually hops by at 2 a.m., so it couldn’t be him. No, this alert was even more thrilling than a visit from a cute cottontail—it was the Amazon delivery man!

With the giddy anticipation of a seven-year-old unwrapping a gift from Grandma, my hubby dashed to the door to retrieve the package. “What could it be? What could it be?” he exclaimed, bringing the box into the kitchen for the grand unveiling.

“What treasure have you ordered this time?” I wondered. This wasn’t the first delivery in recent days, and while I had no doubt it would be something exciting—or at least necessary—I was equally certain it would present a small (or not-so-small) challenge to our budget.

The box was opened with dramatic flair, revealing two jumbo bottles of “Glucosamine Chondroitin with Joint Shield,” a miracle formula promising joint comfort in seven days.

Well, who could argue with the pursuit of health and flexibility? Certainly not me! Hubby clearly needed this extra fortification for the impending golf season.

The next day, the chime rang again, and another box appeared on our doorstep. This time, it was a medium-sized cardboard container, housing a teeny-tiny package of golf tees nestled in heaps of crumpled paper. I mean, maybe the perfect tees weren’t available at the local golf shop?

By Wednesday afternoon, two more boxes arrived, each containing an urgent, absolutely essential item that apparently couldn’t be procured without the blue smiley arrow’s intervention. At this point, two things were becoming abundantly clear: my feeble attempts at maintaining a budget were rapidly circling the drain, and the Amazon delivery guy was at our house so frequently, he was practically family.

“Should we invite the Amazon guy to dinner?” I asked, dripping with sarcasm, as another package landed on Thursday.

“What do you mean?” hubby quipped back, equally flippant. “You know I need all these things, and having them delivered is way faster than driving to the store. Makes sense, right?”

I hated to admit it, but he had a point. We’ve become so accustomed to shopping online that the idea of actually leaving the house to hunt down macadamia nuts or pre-seasoned gourmet popcorn for the barely used popcorn machine feels like scaling Everest.

And full disclosure: I, too, am guilty of overindulging in online shopping. Type the letter “A” in my Google search bar, and Amazon springs to life like a loyal retriever. One click, and I’m lost in shopping paradise.

Amazon truly has everything. Want a spring wardrobe refresh in this season’s trendiest color? Done. Need sneakers in the hottest new style? Easy. It doesn’t matter what “it” is – scroll, click, and just like that, the Amazon man cometh.

Which leads me to the mountain of boxes. So. Many. Boxes. The garage is now a mini cardboard condominium complex. Do we really need to keep all of them? Doubtful. Sure, some get recycled, and a few are repurposed to ship treats to my grandson. But there’s only so much potato pancake and cookie magic I can whip up.

By Friday, I’d spent my afternoon revamping the Excel budget spreadsheet, creating a special column titled “Amazon Purchases.” I bundled up the excess cardboard for recycling and had just sat down to relax when I saw hubby standing at the window, staring down the driveway with a look of sheer panic.

“It’s snowing!” he exclaimed, distressed. “My new putter is supposed to be delivered today, and what if the Amazon guy can’t make it up the driveway? I hope they follow the same motto as mail carriers: ‘Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night…’”

I burst out laughing. Does he realize he can’t practice putting in the snow? Maybe he ordered neon-colored golf balls, too. But before I could tease him further, hubby’s frown disappeared. There he was—our intrepid Amazon delivery hero, braving the storm and trudging through the snow to deliver one more smile.

Maybe we really should invite him in for dinner after all.

© 2025  Annie Sokoloff