A year ago, I found myself facing one of the great realities of my age. At some point, your Amazon purchase history quietly shifts from gadgets and books to orthopedic inserts, fiber supplements, and the occasional emergency tube of hemorrhoid cream. Pride falls quickly when your internal plumbing declares mutiny.
Naturally, I wanted to handle this with dignity and discretion. So, I slipped onto Amazon late one evening, determined to quietly solve my problem like a mature adult male. While I was there, I also ordered a couple decks of playing cards because our family loves card games. Innocent enough. Hemorrhoid cream. Playing cards. Nothing to see here.
What I did not realize was that Dawn had recently ordered a Mother’s Day gift for her mother and accidentally left her parents’ Mesa, Arizona, address as the default shipping location.
Friends, I unknowingly sent hemorrhoid cream and playing cards directly to my elderly, deeply religious, politically conspiracy-minded in-laws. Not flowers. Not candy. Not a thoughtful note. Hemorrhoid cream and playing cards.
And because life occasionally enjoys writing its own comedy, my in-laws are now in their 80s and dementia has begun to settle in. Which means this event did not simply pass by as a funny misunderstanding. No. It became a permanent unsolved mystery.
It has now been over a year and my mother-in-law still brings it up.
Regularly.
She texts Dawn about it as though she’s trying to crack the Da Vinci Code.
“What did Marty mean by this?”
“Was this some kind of message?”
“Why the cards?”
“What was he trying to tell us?”
At this point, I am fairly certain I am one corkboard and three strands of red yarn away from becoming the center of an international conspiracy theory.
Apparently, in her mind, I did not accidentally send hemorrhoid cream and playing cards. I carefully orchestrated symbolic communication of significant importance. Some kind of Freudian psychological operation.
Maybe the hemorrhoid cream represented irritation with the family. Maybe the playing cards symbolized gambling with eternity. Together, they form a coded warning about the end times.
Honestly, the more I think about it, the worse it gets.
I have considered trying to explain it again, but every explanation somehow sounds guiltier. A Freudian slip delivery.
“No, no, you see… the hemorrhoid cream was actually for me.”
That is not a sentence any grown man wants permanently attached to his legacy.
So now I just live with the knowledge that somewhere in Mesa, Arizona, an elderly woman periodically stares into the distance, wondering why her son-in-law mailed her Preparation H and a deck of Bicycle cards like some kind of Zodiac Killer.
And honestly, if I ever write a memoir, this chapter may be hard to top.
Dr. Wesley