My Love Affair with Amazon

My Love Affair with Amazon

I have a confession.

I think I’m in a relationship.

It’s dependable.

It’s attentive.

It knows exactly what I like.

It shows up at my door multiple times a week.

And unlike some men I’ve dated, it actually remembers things I’ve told it.

Its name is Amazon.

Now before you judge me, hear me out.

Amazon and I have history.

What started as an occasional purchase has evolved into a full-blown romance.

At first, it was innocent.

A phone charger.

Some batteries.

A book.

Normal things.

Then Amazon started paying attention.

“Oh, you liked that cardigan? Here are twelve more.”

“You bought mascara? What about these eye patches, this lip gloss, and a ring light you absolutely do not need?”

Suddenly I felt seen.

And that’s how they get you.

The relationship really intensified when I hit my sixties.

I don’t know about you, but there is something magical about not having to leave the house.

Need a white button-down shirt?

Tomorrow.

Need dog treats?

Tomorrow.

Need a rechargeable neck fan because apparently Florida is trying to kill you?

Tomorrow.

Need a set of acrylic drawer organizers that will finally, once and for all, transform you into the organized woman you’ve always wanted to be?

Definitely tomorrow.

The hope Amazon sells may be its greatest product.

Because we’re rarely buying the thing.

We’re buying the fantasy.

That water bottle?

Not a water bottle.

It’s the future version of me who drinks 100 ounces of water every day.

The exercise bands?

Not exercise bands.

They’re the fit, toned woman I plan to become on Monday.

The journal?

Not a journal.

It’s the organized, reflective woman who has her life together and writes meaningful thoughts every morning while sipping lemon water.

The reality?

The water bottle is half full.

The exercise bands remain in the package.

And the journal contains three entries:

January 4th
January 12th
“Need to remember to buy dog food.”

But hope springs eternal.

Then there are the returns.

Amazon has made returning things so easy that I’ve developed a dangerous level of confidence.

I now order clothing in what can only be described as a highly optimistic manner.

Small.
Medium.
Large.

Let’s see who wins.

My apartment occasionally looks like a distribution center.

There are days when I honestly can’t remember what’s arriving.

A package appears and I’m genuinely surprised.

“Oh my God! A gift!”

From me.

To me.

Again.

Sometimes I open a box and have absolutely no recollection of ordering the item.

Which feels less like shopping and more like a scavenger hunt.

My favorite part may be when Amazon sends the notification:

“Your package is 10 stops away.”

Excuse me?

Now I’m emotionally invested.

I become one of those people peeking through the blinds.

Where is he?

What route is he taking?

Why did he stop three streets over?

I know that’s irrational.

And yet there I am.

Waiting.

Watching.

Tracking.

Like a teenager waiting for a text message.

The relationship isn’t perfect, of course.

Amazon occasionally suggests things so random I question whether it knows me at all.

“Customers who bought white jeans also bought a chainsaw.”

Interesting leap.

But no relationship is without challenges.

The truth is, Amazon has become part of modern life.

It’s convenient.

It’s helpful.

It’s slightly addictive.

And honestly?

At this point I trust the Amazon delivery driver more than most of the shirtless men on dating apps.

At least he consistently shows up when he says he will.

And he never sends bathroom selfies.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.

Apparently my package is only three stops away.

Love is love.