Out for Delivery: A Full-Day Emotional Commitment

I hear a “ping” on my phone and see the message: “Your order is out for delivery.”

Out for delivery when?

Morning? Afternoon? Before sunset?

Before civilisation collapses?

I’m excited, yes.
But this is a completely different level of emotional pressure.

My entire day is now on hold. Meetings are mentally cancelled. Errands postponed. Life paused. I am officially on standby.

I tell myself to be patient and go about my day. It doesn’t work. Patience, I’ve realised, is waiting… then waiting some more… and then Googling “How long does out for delivery actually mean?”

My phone is on maximum volume. I cut conversations mid-sentence when other calls come in. Friends think I’m busy. Family thinks I’m rude. The truth is, I’m emotionally committed to a cardboard box.

Past experience has traumatised me. Once, a delivery man appeared out of nowhere. No warning. No mercy. I heard exactly one ping before the call disconnected. Just ONE. Then boom, a message popped up: “Missed call.” Order status, “Customer unavailable.”

Unavailable?

I was right here. Breathing. Waiting. Living my best anxious life. How did he vanish like a ninja with a delivery box?

That incident scarred me.

From that moment on, I do not blink. I do not go to the bathroom. I do not nap. I change out of my pyjamas to look presentable for the grand door-opening ceremony. One must look alert. Worthy. Alive.

My hearing goes into overdrive. Every sound outside sends my heart racing – the lift, footsteps, distant door slams, random dogs barking and even the neighbour sneezing feels suspicious. Could it be the delivery man?

I feel like a popcorn kernel about to pop.

I try to relax and watch TV, keeping the volume low so I don’t miss the ping or the doorbell. Terrible idea. I can’t hear the dialogue and switch on subtitles. I am now reading a thriller, watching a drama, and waiting for a parcel – all at once. Multitasking at its worst.

How desperate is this?

I refresh the tracking page every few minutes, hoping for movement, progress, meaning. It still says “Out for delivery.” Deeply helpful. At one point, I’m convinced the parcel is just circling my building for fun.

Sometimes the doorbell rings and I sprint like an Olympic athlete, only to discover it’s my neighbour’s delivery. Still hopeful, I peek through the curtains every ten minutes, scanning for delivery vans or bikes entering the compound. If one comes in, I whisper, “Please be mine. Please be mine.”

By evening, hunger sets in. I nibble chips quietly, terrified a loud crunch might drown out the ping or the doorbell. I even drink water through a straw to minimise noise. This is commitment.

And just when I think the emotional rollercoaster can’t get worse…….

That’s when the real panic begins.

At 7.47pm, a message arrives with unwavering confidence:

“Your order will be delivered today. Please keep the OTP ready.”

Ready? Where is the mysterious OTP?

I read the message three times, as if the OTP will magically appear through intense staring.

Now the stakes are high. Miss the OTP and your parcel won’t just go back, it will vanish into an alternate dimension where undelivered packages live out their days in silence.

A couple of minutes later, the OTP arrives. Four- or six-digit number. Relief floods my body. My shoulders drop. My faith in the universe is briefly restored.

I rehearse the OTP. Screenshot it. Copy it. Paste it into Notes. Read it aloud. Memorise it like my board-exam roll number. My phone now has more backups of this OTP than my ID cards.

At 8.10 pm, my phone rings. Drum roll.

“Madam, OTP please.”

YES! I have it.

Wait! Please don’t hang up.

I shout the OTP like I’m on a game show. Sometimes I blank despite chanting it since I received it. Other times, numbers betray me. Why does 6 suddenly look like 9?

Sometimes the call drops or it’s crackly or there’s background noise, traffic, or I hear the delivery man arguing about what’s for dinner.  Other times, the OTP message arrives exactly at the same time as the doorbell rings – a test of reflexes, nerves, and character.

If I fumble or panic or say the wrong number, I apologize profusely and conveniently blame the network. Or my age.

Finally, the delivery is complete. Phew!

Even before I shut the door, I get a message that says:

“Order delivered. Trust us with your parcels. We will get them to you.”

Was that something the delivery boy added after seeing me in distress? Sarcastic, but subtle.

I close the door, clutch the parcel and collapse on the sofa – emotionally exhausted, like I’ve achieved something monumental.

All this.…. for a dishwashing liquid soap.
It came in a box ten times its size, and for a moment I wasn’t even sure what I’d ordered.

I’ve survived a test of patience, reflexes and emotional endurance.

Just then, my phone goes ping again.
“Your order will be delivered tomorrow. Please keep OTP ready.”

I sigh. I stay seated. I don’t even pretend to be irritated that the saga will continue tomorrow.

If patience is a virtue, I’m still waiting for mine to be delivered.