That delivery point on the other side of the city

Since corona, I order something online every day. Convenience serves mankind, doesn't it? From dog food to eyebrow pencil and everything in between. One press of a button and just scan the QR code with your camera's eye and you're there. Or so you thought. Because then the package isn't there yet. Aside from the seventeen emails that subsequently stretch your mailbox (confirmation of your order, seven status updates on your order, and a survey about your order), you still have to get that package into your house.

Now I am blessed with Victor, my PostNL delivery person, with whom I have agreed on a secret hiding spot and who then notifies me with a (handwritten!) note. He now signs it with ‘Vic’.

But that heavenly treatment does not apply to DPD, UPS, and DHL. They really show me all corners of Haarlem. I break into a sweat when I see the ‘We missed each other’ card lying in the mailbox. That often means little good. Yesterday, I stood in a sewing workshop that smelled like hash, where I had to rummage through a pile of packages for something that bore my name. Sometimes I saw names on labels of people I knew. It felt like I was rummaging through their lingerie. Too intimate, in short. During corona, I developed a slight sports addiction where my hips may not be expanding, but my collection of sports toys certainly is. I bought a five-kilo ring (no idea what to do with it yet, but there must be a YouTube video about it) and sliders with which I will soon glide into a smooth split. Ordered today, delivered tomorrow, so the Bijenkorf lured me in. But I was just taking the dog out, and now those darn sliders are at the Hema in Schalkwijk. That's not only a fifteen-minute bike ride from my house, but it's also deep in a shopping center that I then have to walk through.

I think I will just go back to old-fashioned shopping. Just bike to the store in question. Better for the environment, for local entrepreneurs, and for my mood as well.