Twin Cities Mom Collective

A Love Letter to the Guy Who Brings My Groceries to My Car

Grocery Delivery service

I don’t know how to tell you this, but…I think I’m in love with you.

I’m thinking this as I pull up to the parking lot and park my car. I send the message to let you know I have arrived. Just pressing the button brings instant butterflies to my heart. I picture you on the other side of the door, receiving the alert. Do you get butterflies, too? Probably not. I know I can’t be the only one on your mind. I see the others. They wait for you, too. 

But still, I like to think I’m special to you. Do you smile when you see my name pop up on your screen? Do you even see my name? Maybe I’m just a number to you. Gah! I’m freaking out. Play it cool. Play it cool. You just have no idea what you do to me! 

I keep looking in my rearview mirror, desperate to not miss the moment you walk out the door. Wait, is that you? Someone is walking out the door. They are wearing your favorite color shirt–red. It has to be you. You always wear red, like the burning hot flames of my love for you. The guy is getting closer to my car, my heart races in anticipation, but then…no, it isn’t you. That guy went to another car. I take a few breaths to calm my disappointed heart.

What is taking you so long? Nope, that’s my insecurity talking again. Deep breath. I need to shift my thinking. 

Really, if I think about it, I know why it’s taking you so long. You are being careful to gather up all of your things–my things, actually–that you promised to bring me. This is just one of the many reasons why I love you. You always know what I want. Communication is very important to you and for this I swoon. You make me feel safe to ask you for what I need, knowing that you will do everything you can to make it happen for me. And when you can’t, oh my heart, you are so kind about it. You apologize and try to help me meet that need somewhere else. Which, honestly, is fine, because it’s like you know I didn’t really need the thing in the first place. I trust that you know what’s best for me. Trust, communication, honesty–you check off every box. Could you be any more perfect?

My phone dings. I catch my breath. It’s from you. “Sorry for the delay. We will be with you shortly.”  We. So we’re a “we” now? Be still my heart. You have such a way with words. Ok, love. I’ll wait for you, from now until infinity. 

I check my makeup one last time, except then I remember I don’t wear makeup anymore because I don’t go anywhere but here these days. Why didn’t I think to at least put on some lip gloss?! Then I remember you are bringing me some and I make a note to put it on the next time we meet. 

I start to get self conscious about what is playing on my radio–NPR. Only nerds listen to NPR. But wait, maybe you would think I was intellectual and cultured. Maybe you too are a nerd! Nerds of the universe unite! Probably not, though. I could switch it to a podcast, maybe something funny. Guys love funny girls. But I scroll through my feed and see nothing but self-care gurus, mom hosts, and Taylor Swift podcasts. How embarrassing. Music is cool. Yeah, I’ll play music. What are the kids listening to these days? I pull up my spotify app but I see once again it has been sabotaged by the children in my house. No, I do NOT want to listen to Encanto again. I scroll, desperate to land on something familiar that gives me good music cred (Dua Lipa? Doja Cat? What are these, Super Mario Characters?), when I notice movement in my rearview mirror. Doors opening, a young man wearing a red shirt walking towards my car. IT’S YOU! 

I’m not playing it cool anymore. I’m the opposite of cool. I’m freaking out. Quickly before you reach my car I settle for The Weeknd (but why no “e”?) assuming that must be a hip choice since they played at the Super Bowl. I take a deep breath and try to compose myself. When you reach my window I can hardly breathe. I smile and I think you must be smiling too behind that mask. You gesture for me to roll down my window and I feel like Juliet at the balcony waiting for the words of Romeo. What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and you, my man in red, are the sun.

I roll the window and a rush of cool air hits me in the face. I’m reminded once again what a gift it is that you were willing to come all the way to my car in negative a-millionty degree temperatures so I don’t have to get out of my car. The realization of this tender gift only heats up my already desperate crush on you.

“Hi,” I try to make my voice sound chill but it comes out more like an awkward giggle that I instantly regret. Hi. Surely there was a better line than that?! I’m such a dufus. 

“Your code?” you ask. My code, my code. My mind is blank in your presence. Is this a safe word? Or like a lover’s secret message?

“On your phone?” you reply, as dry as can be. 

“Oh the code! Right. Of course.” I fumble for my phone and hold up the numbers for you like the key to my heart.

Without saying a word then, you walk to the back of my car and I pop open the trunk. With tender care and attention you place each bag inside, showing the same love for my eggs and loaf of bread and honeycrisp apples (but not jar of mayo because it appears you are out of stock but that’s ok because you’re right, I don’t need to make tuna sandwiches this weekend anyway) like it is your own. 

There is so much I want to say to you at this moment. I want you to know that the way you take care of me restores my hope in humanity. I want to tell you that anticipating our visits is what gets me through the day. That sometimes I daydream about when I can escape this prison, I mean home, and see you again. That I would wait minutes, hours even, all from the warm comfort of my car until you are ready for me. In short, I want to tell you that you have changed my life. 

But I know if I said all that I’d probably start crying and I might even pull you in for a kiss. And that would be awkward for all of us because I’m married to a really great guy and I don’t even like you like that. I just love that you bring me my groceries. 

So anyway, I don’t want to make it awkward, or run the risk of being banned from the grocery drive up line for life, so I just smile in my rearview mirror. And when you ask me if you can close the trunk door for me I say “thanks. I got it.” Because it’s the least I can do to show you how I feel. 

Is it cool that I said all that? Anyway, see you next week. I hope you have mayo in stock by then.

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