We’re all still quarantining, right? Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one. Remember the early days of the pandemic, when we’d debate who had it the roughest? It was parents (who suddenly had to entertain their children 24/7) vs. couples (who suddenly found themselves spending too much time together) vs. single people (who seemingly only binged shows on Netflix).
Now that we’ve settled into the pandemic, I think we can agree this shit is tough for all of us. But as a single person who’s now seen every episode of television, I gotta say: what does the touch of another human being feel like again?
Human contact is like that nightclub in that one episode of Beverly Hills, 90210 that you could only find if you went to a specific convenience store and gave the guy behind the counter an egg. I’m sure it exists, but it seems like way too much effort to find right now.
For a while, I was able to forget about the need for touch by teaching myself how to cook. Finally, a way to keep my hands busy! What better time to get acquainted with my kitchen, right? Unfortunately, my culinary skills were a crock (pot) of shit.
For example, when the recipe was supposed to look like this…
…my version looked like this:
So my cooking style isn’t exactly Top Chef. Which is why I put down my spatula. It’s also how I became obsessed with my Grubhub delivery guy.
Every time I order from Grubhub, the app tells me a different driver’s name. But since the driver’s always wearing a face mask when he arrives, I imagine it’s the same guy each time. The face mask makes me like him immediately. After all, doing the absolute minimum, least-effort, responsible thing to protect people you come into contact with is incredibly sexy.
I also love that he’s always at my door within 45-60 minutes, whenever I need him. It’s the most consistent relationship I’ve had since the quarantine began. He even shares his location with me when he’s driving. He must know how co-dependent I am! And yet he still brings me food.
Look, my relationship with my Grubhub driver(s) isn’t ideal. We only communicate through my closed front door, and most of our conversations consist of two words. “Delivery!” for him, and “Thanks!” for me. But that’s how things have to be right now, while this virus rages through our country and our government doesn’t take it seriously enough.
But just the other day, when I ordered a normal single-person meal of lamb samosa, chicken tikka masala, chicken vindaloo, fish curry, malai kofta, saag paneer, and three helpings of garlic naan, my delivery guy brought me an extra set of utensils. And I know exactly what message I should read into that extra set of utensils.
That extra set of utensils is a promise. That extra set of utensils might as well be a diamond ring. That extra set of utensils means he wants to become my Grub-hubby.
Which is how I figured out I’m dating my Grubhub delivery guy.