Individually Wrapped People

I want to clear something up before it becomes a whole personality rumor: I am not antisocial. Antisocial people have a whole thing going on — brooding, isolation, maybe a cape. I am not that. I simply believe the human race would function better if everyone came individually wrapped, like a cheese slice, or a hotel soap, or one of those little crackers that’s mostly air and disappointment, or those mystery hard candies at the bank that have been there since the Clinton administration.

The case for keeping everyone individually wrapped, forever, no exceptions

Think about it. When something comes individually wrapped, you know exactly what you’re getting. No surprises. No ‘oh, this one’s been touched by seventeen strangers at a party.’ You open it, you use it, you move on with your life, refreshed, untouched by group dynamics. I would like this energy applied to brunch. I would like this energy applied to family gatherings. I would like this energy applied to the office potluck, where Kevin’s ‘famous chili’ shows up in a crockpot with no lid and no explanation, like a crime scene. I would like my Uncle Gary shrink-wrapped and shipped to a separate table entirely, ideally in another zip code, ideally with tracking information so I know exactly when he’s arriving and can plan accordingly, possibly by leaving the country. Weddings would be shorter. Funerals would be classier. The DMV would still be terrible, but at least everyone waiting in line would be sealed off from each other’s cologne.

Why individually wrapped people make better neighbors, coworkers, and exes

My upstairs neighbor does not understand the concept of personal packaging. He believes that because we share a ceiling, we share a life. We do not. I do not need updates on his fantasy football league delivered through the floorboards at 11pm, nor do I need to know that his treadmill sessions are, mysteriously, always directly above my bed. If he were sealed, labeled, and stored at a reasonable distance — say, a different building, possibly a different plane of existence — we could still be neighbors. Friendly, even. From afar. Through glass. Maybe with subtitles. Maybe with a small gift basket left on a porch, never a doorbell, never eye contact.

Exes are the strongest argument for this system. Every single one of mine should have come individually wrapped from day one, with a little tab that says ‘do not reopen after initial disappointment,’ the way batteries warn you not to swallow them. Instead I kept unwrapping them repeatedly, like a raccoon convinced this time the trash can holds something different. It never does. It’s the same trash. It was always the same trash, occasionally with a nice jacket. Coworkers fall into the same category — specifically the one who ‘just has a quick question’ that somehow requires forty-five minutes, a whiteboard, and my entire soul. He should arrive pre-portioned, like airplane pretzels, so I know precisely how much of him I’m dealing with before I commit.

The individually wrapped starter pack for surviving humanity

Here’s my proposed system. Coworkers: individually wrapped, delivered to their desks, opened only during scheduled meetings, resealed immediately after, like a granola bar nobody asked for. Extended family: individually wrapped and mailed to the reunion, so someone else has to deal with the unboxing, the assembly, and the inevitable political comment from a folding chair. Strangers on the subway who want to tell you their whole life story before your stop: I would pay actual currency for a world where they came individually wrapped with a warning label that says ‘contents may overshare, do not make eye contact, do not offer a napkin.’ Gym acquaintances who narrate their entire workout out loud, wedding guests who insist on a toast, group chats that will not, under any circumstances, die peacefully — all of them, sealed, labeled, shelf-stable, opened only with consent and possibly gloves.

People think this makes me difficult. It does not. It makes me organized. There is a difference between hating people and simply requiring that they be portioned appropriately, like a vending machine snack, rather than showing up in bulk, unannounced, demanding emotional bandwidth I did not budget for and frankly never had. I have a system. The system involves distance. The system involves packaging. The system, frankly, involves a level of personal-space engineering that should be studied in universities, possibly funded by grants, possibly named after me, possibly with a gift shop that sells tiny plastic wrap for keychains.

I don’t dislike humanity. I dislike humanity in large, unsealed batches, arriving without notice, standing slightly too close, breathing audibly, asking to ‘jump on a call.’ Kept at a reasonable distance, wrapped and labeled and appropriately portioned, isn’t a rejection of people — it’s an appreciation of them, in manageable, resealable amounts. That’s not coldness. That’s quality control. And frankly, it’s about time someone applied basic food-safety standards to brunch invitations, group texts, and whatever Kevin is doing with that crockpot.