Stop the pizza

It was dinner time, and I was starving.

We decided to get some pizza. My wife always orders. There's two reasons for this.

First, she's better at coordinating groups of people clamoring for that favorite American pastime. She takes the requests, maneuvers the app, and has the patience necessary to figure out complicated dietary preferences.

Second, I don't like to cloud up my perfect inbox zero with unnecessary emails from companies trying to sell their products.

Truth be told those thoughts weren't exactly present in my mind that day.

But they weren't completely absent.

I wasn't thinking about the emails. I should have.

But, when my amazing wife of nearly eighteen years wanted help ordering pizza—and she's always been the one to do it—I decided it time to step up.

So like the good husband I was, I offered to help.

But my hubris was my downfall.

You see, I'm a maximalist in areas of life that don't matter. If there's a large group photo I'll insist that the phone with the latest hardware be used to snap the moment—even though half the group will have their eyes closed, two will be wrangling kids, and the sun will be glaring into the rest.

It's a problem, and I'm working through it. But this context is important.

I could have ordered the pizza on my wife's phone.

She already had the app, after all.

But I didn't want to use her phone.

Mine is a better experience, it's a newer model. The hardware is faster. It doesn't have a case.

So I downloaded the app, completely unaware of what lay ahead.

We ordered the pizza, enjoyed it, ate way too much, and had leftovers.

Now, before we continue with this story, I must say that I love fast food pizza. It's a guilty pleasure, and the local Dominos is less than two miles from our house. They're speedy, make a great pie, and we order once a month.

It's always gone smoothly, and remained out of mind when not needed. But that's because my wife did the orders.

I really just wanted to help.

It was a moment of generosity on my part. A desire to do something useful. But even then I couldn't help myself.

Yes, I was taking on the role of the supportive husband. I was stepping out metaphorically and hunting for our vegetarian pizza.

And I've been wondering about something. It nags at the back of my mind.

Looking through the haze, the chaos, the uncertainty, the rage-the barely fettered desire to hurl my devices across the room—I'm 99% sure I unchecked the little box to receive marketing emails.

Because, there's something you must know about me.

I am a one man army employing every tool in my arsenal against unwanted messages.

I don't mind some of them. But it has to be my choice.

I ruthlessly cut.

I employ every trick I know to make sure my inbox only updates from people and organizations of my choosing.

I'm pretty technical.

I've gotten control of my inbox, and on most days I'm at zero messages. Everything else is in my archive or deleted.

Thinking back, I'm almost sure I unchecked the little box.

I wish I could rewind time, look at my phone, and know the truth for certain. Because that's me. I always uncheck. It eats me up inside.

We ate our pizza and enjoyed it.

I thought we'd be good. I'd done my job.

Then the first email arrived.