Last week, I did a little rearranging of the furniture on the second floor of our house. I notice that, whenever I feel like I need to regain control, I either eat everything that’s not nailed down or eats me first. OR, I rearrange the furniture in our house. The latter seemed like a better option.
This time, I swapped the guest room furniture with the office furniture, so the loft (which used to be my office) would now have a daybed and bookshelves and the guest room would be the new home to my office. Then I realized I needed a desk.
So, on what would have otherwise been a relaxing Sunday, I dragged my husband up and down Highway 611 in search of the perfect desk. Finally, after visits to Target, Home Depot, Lowes, and even Wegmans (a grocery store with a salad bar that, I swear, moves me to tears), we wound up at Staples. A place Dan had suggested we go to and I hastily poo pooed when we first started out on our trek.
There, I promptly ordered a mission style maple-colored desk and matching file cabinet and set up delivery for Wednesday. Of course, I didn’t think it through. Meaning that, before we left, I didn’t whip out my mace and force the salesperson to give me an exact delivery time or else.
As a result, you guessed it. I called the Staples 800 number at the ass crack of dawn on Wednesday morning to find out when they’d arrive and, sure enough, they told me they would come anytime between 9 and 5.
“Shut up,” I said. “Can’t you narrow it down some?” I thought I was being very polite.
“No ma’am, I’m sorry. The drivers are the ones who keep the schedule and we can’t reach them or pin them down to a time.”
“Why not? I pinned my husband to a wedding date. This seems like it’d be a lot simpler.”
Subdued chuckle. “Yes, well, I’m sure it isn’t.”
“Oh, you’re sure are you?” I was starting to get mad since what she was telling me was that I would be basically lock-and-chained to my desk for the next eight hours. And at my age, where every moment is precious, I really didn’t appreciate that.
“Well, what if it comes when I’m out walking the dogs for 10 minutes?”
“I’m sorry ma’am. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, you can tell me what time my furniture is coming.”
“Thank you for calling Staples, ma’am.”
“Thank you for damning me to eight hours of captivity.”
And with that, sensing I wasn’t going to get any further with her, I hung up.
So here’s my question: These companies have been in existence since the beginning of time. They’ve figured out a way to own and run stores across the globe, communicate across cultures, ship and stock countless types of crap that we rarely-need-but-buy anyway-because-it’s-there. (Really, do you need a wheel with 5,000 color-coded paper clips? Or a stapler that hangs from a rope?)
And yet, they can’t figure out a way to pinpoint down to an hour—even two—when they can deliver a piece of furniture two miles from one of their stores.
I don’t want stock options. I don’t want a service manager to come to my house for dinner so I can vent. All I want are digits and periods. 10 a.m. or 2 p.m.? 1 p.m. or 3:45? Tell me when my mission desk is coming. Because I’m 54. I don’t have time to squander. I mean really, do any of us?
Letting go, all. Letting go!
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Jill Sherer Murray is an award-winning writer and speaker who studies creativity, relationships and self-growth. She is also the founder of Let Go For It®, a lifestyle brand dedicated to helping individuals let go for a better life. Jill’s TEDx talk as well as her advice column, Big Wild Love: Let Go For It® were created in service to her loyal and growing fan base, who seek support in the act and the art of letting go for the love they desire and deserve. Follow Jill @letgoforit on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and LinkedIn.