When Ebay began, I jumped on the bandwagon and fell in love with bidding on things.  I’d take a break from writing to scroll through whalebone and vintage fabrics, Nantucket antiques and whaling ephemera.

I enjoyed Amazon, too.  Ordering books was never so easy and I didn’t even have to leave my desk to shop.  For many, many years I’ve ordered online from fabric stores and computer supply stores.  I’ve bought fig jam.  And musical instruments.  French soap.  Vacuum cleaners.  Protein bars.

The list goes on and on.  You know exactly what I mean, because you’re doing it, too.  Today I’m expecting the delivery of a new computer mouse, having drowned my former one in hot coffee yesterday.

Banjo Man retrieves the boxes and bags deposited by the back door and carries them upstairs to the kitchen island.  And then he hovers, waiting for me to show him what I’ve bought.

Sometimes I don’t remember.

Many, many times Banjo Man lifts a bag or box and cheerfully accuses me of buying “air”.  Are  you sure there’s something in there, he’ll joke.  And I’ll rip open the box to reveal sewing machine needles or pins or a cd.

It’s a thing we old folks do to amuse ourselves.

But last Sunday?

Inside the package there really was “air”.  It was empty.  No little $3.84 computer cord for my Garmin, no packing receipt, nada.

I couldn’t wait to show Banjo Man.  His “air” prediction had finally come true!

It was a little tricky trying to “return” something that didn’t exist.  Amazon didn’t have a box to check for that.  So I ordered a replacement and was told I didn’t have to return the “damaged” original.  Which was good, because mailing air back and forth is hitting a new low, even during these strange and awful times.