I Just Wanted a Sandwich, a Photograph, and a Birthday Card...

There was a time when doing simple things was actually simple. You could walk into a restaurant, order a sandwich, eat it, and leave. Taking a family photograph didn’t require appointing a committee, and buying someone a birthday card didn’t mean spending twenty minutes evaluating the emotional credentials of a stranger employed by a greeting card company.

Those days are gone. Today, ordering lunch requires the patience of a hostage negotiator, group photos demand advanced crowd management, and purchasing a birthday card has become an exercise in determining how much affection you’re legally obligated to express.

I have questions. And unfortunately, so does everybody else.

1. The Sandwich Interrogation

Imagine walking into a sandwich shop with one uncomplicated goal: a turkey sandwich. Not a custom-built culinary masterpiece, just turkey, bread, and whatever vegetables happen to be behaving themselves.

“Welcome! What can I get started for you?”

“A turkey sandwich, please.”

“Absolutely! What kind of bread?”

“White.”

“Classic white, artisan white, country white, sourdough white, or our signature rustic farmhouse white?”

Apparently, white bread has developed a caste system.

“Regular white.”

“Would you like that toasted?”

“No.”

“Warm?”

“No.”

“Lightly warmed?”

“Isn’t that just toasted with commitment issues?”

The employee smiles politely.

“What cheese?”

“Swiss.”

“Baby Swiss, aged Swiss, imported Swiss, or our signature alpine-inspired Swiss-style cheese experience?”

“Whichever one comes from a cow.”

“Would you like to make that a combo?”

“No, thank you.”

“Chips?”

“No.”

“Cookie?”

“No.”

“Drink?”

“No.”

“Would you like to add avocado?”

“No.”

“Extra protein?”

“No.”

“Would you like to round up your purchase to support our Sandwiches for Tomorrow initiative?”

At this point, I’d like to round up the employees and ask if anyone remembers how to make lunch. Then comes the dressing interrogation...

“Mayonnaise, mustard, honey mustard, spicy mustard, Dijon mustard, garlic aioli, chipotle aioli, basil aioli, or our house-made signature sauce?”

“What is the signature sauce?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Does anybody know what’s in it?”

“Our manager does.”

“Is he here?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t trust it.”

Twenty-seven questions later, the employee finally reaches for the bread. And just when I think the ordeal is over:

“Can I get a name for the order?”

Why? Is the sandwich serving me divorce papers?? What is going on here? And somewhere behind the counter, a printer spits out a receipt long enough to contain the Geneva Convention. All I wanted was turkey. I’ve accidentally enrolled in a culinary witness protection program.

2. The Family Photograph Hostage Crisis

Nothing reveals the organizational collapse of modern civilization quite like the words: “Everybody, get together! We’re taking a picture!” Instantly, seventeen adults behave as though they’ve never encountered a camera.

“Where should I stand?”

“Can you move left?”

“Your left or my left?”

“Who’s taking it?”

“Where’s Grandma?”

“Grandma’s in the bathroom.”

“Well, somebody go get Grandma!”

Meanwhile, Uncle Dennis is arranging everybody by height, even though half the family is seated and the other half is on a staircase. Someone suggests putting the children in front, a tactical error. Children don't stay where they are placed. They migrate, wander, develop sudden interests in shrubbery. One child cries because another touches his elbow. A toddler is holding a cracker, now the most important object in the photograph. And Aunt Linda keeps shouting, “SQUEEZE TOGETHER!”

We’re already squeezed together, Linda. My left kidney is currently sharing an apartment with Cousin Robert’s belt buckle. Eventually, after playing a short game of "who just tooted," someone announces the picture is ready.

“Everybody look here!”

Now six people are holding phones.

“Look at MY camera!”

“No, look at THIS one!”

“Wait, mine’s on portrait mode!”

“Mine’s recording!”

“WHOSE CAMERA ARE WE LOOKING AT?”

Nobody knows. We are a family of seventeen staring in eleven different directions, like witnesses to an unidentified flying object. Or cross-eyed movie stars stumbling around the red carpet.

The photographer begins counting.

“One … two …”

“WAIT! DEBRA’S EYES ARE CLOSED!”

Debra hasn’t closed her eyes yet. She’s merely squinting, anticipating the flash. The photographer starts again.

“One … two … three!”

Click. A moment of silence. Then:

“Let’s take another one.”

WHY? Did the first photograph expire? Did somebody’s face fail inspection? Apparently, Uncle Dennis was blinking, Grandma was looking at the wrong phone, and Cousin Robert’s shirt had ridden up enough to reveal an alarming amount of Thanksgiving dinner.

Twenty minutes later, we’re still standing there. The children have aged. The cracker has disintegrated. Two relatives have developed irreconcilable differences. And Aunt Linda demands one more photograph “just in case.” In case of WHAT, LINDA? A FAMILY RECALL?

3. The Seven-Dollar Emotional Transaction

Finally, we subsequently arrive at the greeting card aisle… a place where human emotion has been professionally manufactured, laminated, and priced at $7.49. You need a birthday card for someone you like. Seems straightforward enough. Immediately, you’re confronted with categories: Funny Birthday. Heartfelt Birthday. Religious Birthday. Belated Birthday. Birthday for Someone Who’s Like a Brother but Isn’t Technically Related. Birthday for a Coworker You Occasionally Acknowledge Near the Microwave.

I don’t know what relationship category my friend falls into. He’s Gary... We’ve known each other for twenty years. Sometimes we talk about football and truck suspension. This shouldn’t require a psychological assessment.

I pick up a funny card. On the front, a cartoon dog wears sunglasses. Inside: “You’re not getting older! You’re getting more distinguished!” Gary is sixty-two and recently backed his car into his own mailbox. Distinguished is a bit of a stretch.

The next card features a beautiful sunset and says: “Through every season of life, your friendship has been the quiet melody that guides my heart.” Whoa. Easy there, Shakespeare. Gary once borrowed my hedge trimmer and returned it with a missing wheel. We’re not exchanging vows here ok?

Another card: “To someone who means more to me than words could ever express…” Actually, words could express it. “Happy birthday, Gary. Hope you have a good one.” There. Expressed. But the card company doesn’t offer that option without adding a dancing pickle or a joke about prostate exams.

And why are greeting cards so expensive? It’s folded paper. Somebody wrote less than a paragraph. There’s an envelope. Seven dollars. For another three dollars, I could hire the writer to personally explain my feelings to Gary.

Eventually, I settle on a card that says: “To a truly wonderful friend, whose kindness, wisdom, and generosity make the world a brighter place.” It’s a bit much. Especially since Gary still owes me forty bucks. But I buy it anyway. At home, I realize the inside is already filled with eloquent sentiments, leaving barely any room to write. So I add: “Happy Birthday! — N.” And there it is. Seven dollars and forty-nine cents for somebody else’s emotional labor. My contribution? An exclamation point and an initial. I'm bushed, it's Miller time!

The Final Verdict

Perhaps that’s the real achievement of modern civilization. We’ve turned a sandwich into a questionnaire, a family photograph into a military operation, and a birthday greeting into an outsourced declaration of affection. All three activities were perfectly functional before we improved them. And yet here we are: standing at a sandwich counter answering questions about artisanal bread, waiting for Aunt Linda to approve photograph number thirty-seven, and trying to decide whether Gary deserves the $7.49 card or the $4.99 one with the farting squirrel.

Personally, I think I’ll go back to basics, order something simple, take one photograph, write my own birthday message. Although, knowing my luck, the sandwich shop will ask me to complete a satisfaction survey, Linda will demand a retake, and Gary will call to ask why I didn’t send a card.

And I will have exactly one response: “Gary, you still owe me forty dollars.”