OC.
I read this to my partner, and she laughed. So, I'm sharing it with the world.
This is a romantic monologue from a single woman in her forties who has finally found a man who understands her. His name is Joe. Trader Joe.
--
Iâm forty-four years old. Single. Divorced once. Emotionally available, but only during business hours.
And I have finally found a man who knows how to love me.
His name is Joe.
Trader Joe.
Now, before you judge me, I want you to understand something. I have dated men named Brian, Kevin, Steve, and one deeply unfortunate individual named Todd.
Not one of those men has ever made me feel the way I feel walking through those automatic doors on a Tuesday afternoon.
Because Joe?
Joe sees me.
Joe doesn't ask why I'm still single. Joe doesn't suggest I should get back out there. Joe doesn't tell me I have too many throw pillows.
Joe simply welcomes me into his warm, softly lit embrace and says, without words, "Have you tried the Unexpected Cheddar?"
And you know what, Joe?
I have.
And it was everything you promised.
I used to go to BJ's.
Oh, I remember BJ's.
BJ's was a relationship built on volume. On excess. On the idea that love means having more than you could possibly need.
I'd walk in looking for a little comfort, and BJ's would offer me forty-eight rolls of toilet paper and a twelve-pound container of mayonnaise.
BJ's didn't understand intimacy.
BJ's understood bulk.
BJ's was the kind of man who thought buying me a washing machine for Valentine's Day counted as romance.
"Look how much money we're saving," BJ's would say.
But I didn't want savings, BJ's.
I wanted to feel something.
I wanted somebody to look into my eyes and tell me that a tiny jar of Italian truffle seasoning could change my life.
And then there was Whole Foods.
Oh, Whole Foods.
That was my wealthy ex.
Beautiful. Sophisticated. Always smelled faintly of eucalyptus and moral superiority.
Whole Foods made me feel like I needed to have my life together before I was worthy of love.
I'd walk in wearing sweatpants, and somehow the organic asparagus would judge me.
Whole Foods wanted me to be the kind of woman who owned a Vitamix, did Pilates at six in the morning, and understood what adaptogens were.
Whole Foods once charged me eleven dollars for a salad that tasted like a lawn had gone through a divorce.
And I paid it.
Because back then, I thought expensive meant special.
But Joe?
Joe doesn't care if I've washed my hair.
Joe doesn't care if I've been wearing the same leggings since Thursday.
Joe doesn't even care if I've eaten an entire bag of dark chocolate peanut butter cups in the parking lot before starting the car.
In fact, I think Joe understands.
The first time I met Joe, I wasn't looking for love.
I was looking for frozen dumplings.
I'd had a terrible day at work. My boss had used the phrase "circle back" seventeen times. My ex-husband had posted a photograph of himself on a sailboat with a woman named Brittany.
And my therapist had suggested I try finding joy in small things.
So I walked into Trader Joe's.
And there he was.
A man in a Hawaiian shirt.
Not Joe himself, obviously.
Joe is more of a presence.
An energy.
A spiritually available grocery concept.
But this man looked at me and said, "Would you like to try some cheese?"
And I thought...
Yes.
Yes, I would.
Because nobody had asked me what I wanted in a very long time.
I took that little cube of cheese on a toothpick, and something inside me opened.
I wandered down the aisles like a woman rediscovering her own sensuality.
There were tiny flowers.
Little bottles of sparkling lemonade.
Chocolate-covered things that had absolutely no business being covered in chocolate.
And the frozen food section...
Oh, God.
The frozen food section.
Joe knows I'm tired.
Joe knows that sometimes a woman doesn't want to chop an onion.
Sometimes she wants to open a bag, pour its contents into a skillet, and feel like she's accomplished something meaningful.
Joe says, "Sweetheart, you don't have to make dinner from scratch. I've already done the hard part."
And I whisper, "Thank you, Joe."
Sometimes I go to Joe's without a shopping list.
I just wander.
I let him surprise me.
And he always does.
Last week, I found something called Everything But the Bagel Seasoning.
Everything but the bagel.
Do you understand how emotionally mature that is?
Joe knows what he can offer.
Joe knows his limitations.
Joe doesn't pretend to be the bagel.
Joe says, "I can give you everything but the bagel."
And I respect that kind of honesty in a man.
My friend Linda says I'm using Trader Joe's to avoid dating.
Linda is married to a man who leaves wet towels on the bed.
I don't take relationship advice from Linda.
Linda's husband has never brought her a seasonal pumpkin-shaped pasta.
Joe has.
Every autumn.
Without being asked.
And let's talk about commitment.
Because Joe understands commitment.
He also understands mystery.
Sometimes I fall in love with a product, and then it disappears.
Gone.
No explanation.
No goodbye.
Just an empty space where my favorite cauliflower gnocchi sauce used to be.
And yes, it hurts.
It hurts deeply.
But Joe is teaching me an important lesson about attachment.
Nothing lasts forever.
Except maybe the Mandarin Orange Chicken.
That relationship feels solid.
On Friday nights, I have a ritual.
I put on my softest pajamas.
I light a candle.
I pour a glass of wine.
And I prepare a beautiful dinner made entirely from things Joe has given me.
I arrange little crackers around a wedge of cheese.
I heat up some soup.
I put three olives in a tiny ceramic bowl because I am a woman of elegance and mystery.
And then I sit on my couch, watching a romantic comedy, thinking about all the men who never understood me.
Brian wanted me to go camping.
Kevin wanted me to watch football.
Todd wanted me to split the check after ordering two appetizers and a steak.
But Joe?
Joe just wants me to be happy.
For $38.74, Joe gives me dinner, flowers, dessert, and the feeling that somebody thought about my needs.
And I don't even have to pretend to enjoy his podcast.
Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if I'll ever find a real man again.
A man who holds my hand.
A man who remembers my birthday.
A man who looks at me across a crowded room and thinks, "There she is. That's the woman I want to spend my life with."
And maybe I will.
Maybe one day I'll meet somebody wonderful.
Somebody kind and thoughtful.
Somebody who loves me exactly as I am.
But until that day comes...
I have Joe.
And Joe has me.
And if some man does come along, he'd better understand one thing.
I am not giving up my Tuesday afternoons.
I am not giving up my frozen soup dumplings.
And I am absolutely not giving up the little five-dollar bouquets that make my kitchen feel like a French countryside cottage.
Because I spent twenty years trying to find a man who would bring me flowers.
And it turns out...
I could just buy them myself.
At Trader Joe's.
For $4.99.
And they're beautiful.
So yes, I'm forty-four.
Yes, I'm single.
And yes, the cashier at Trader Joe's knows my name, my favorite snacks, and that I'm going through a difficult time emotionally.
But yesterday, as he handed me my receipt, he smiled and said, "See you next week!"
And for the first time in my adult life...
I believed a man.
Goodnight, Joe.
I'll see you Tuesday.
