Secret Missions, Contraband and Teenage Sexuality
Posted on September 25, 2007
Filed Under kids, parenting, suburban joys, snark, another dread disease, drugs |
I live in small town, small enough to necessitate a thirty minute drive beyond town borders in order to pick up choice, sensitive items like Tampax or Monistat or Trojans. Of course our lovely town with its black shuttered antique homes and a well manicured town-green with azalea bushes that bloom magenta in early spring has its own well-stocked pharmacy. But, being the only pharmacy in town, it is frequented by my neighbor, the kids’ soccer coach and the barista at Starbucks. It’s too incredibly, skin crawlingly awful to have to stand there in the aisle of CVS making small talk with someone who knows your address and your child’s shoe size and whether or not you drink full caff, skim, grande Vanilla Lattes while trying to hide an armful of Super Plus tampons. There’s just no recovery from such embarrassment. So I drive an extra twenty minutes out of my way to ensure that my purchases are made in private. I scout the store first. Walking casually to and fro. Assessing my audience. And when I determine that the coast is clear, I dive hurriedly into the aisle of motification, fill my arms with embarrasing contraband and glide casually towards the nearest female check out professional. I chose her carefully. She must have a knowing look that says she understands that she must work quickly, efficiently, before another store patron joins the line. She must look as though she knows, intuitively, that she must double bag so that the words, TAMPAX, writ large in glowing white, will not show through.
I save these missions for desperate times, times like this Saturday when G was complaining her bum hurt and O was itching at a rash that had cropped up in his groin area. (Yes, he showers by himself and probably just runs the water, eschewing soap in the private region and thus developing some nasty jock itch type of thing). And I figured that, while I was at it, this buying of Preparation H and Jock itch spray, I might as well purchase every other humiliating item we might need in the next six months. I piled my carriage high with tampons and panty liners and infection remedies and sexual lubricants and over the counter contraceptives. I was pushing a veritable cornucopia of elixirs and pastes and latex goodies when I turned the corner of the nearly abandoned grocery store in Nowheresville and ran smack into my tennis coach, the one I see three times a week and talks too much and tells mere acquaintances the intimate details of his own personal life and will, therefore, have no problem reporting to all his clients at the racquet club just what various and sundry items I had stashed in my carriage that morning.
I immediately launched into my most animated small talk while hurriedly opening the freezer door nearest me and piling gallon after gallon of ice cream right on top of my carriage-full of hideousness. Chocolate chip, Moose Tracks, Coffee Heath Bar, whatever. Must cover up the evidence. Must divert attention. Would rather talk about my horrific ice cream addiction than my yeast infection. It didn’t occur to me until I was safely at the check out that he must have thought the incredible amounts of ice cream my personal cure for menstrual cramps, hemorrhoids and jock itch.
I was quietly waiting for the bookish looking older woman to finish with her customer before joining her line when I heard it, the words I most dread, “Ma’am…Ma’am? I can take you over here.” The words chilled me to the core, spoken as the were in the distinct tone of a very male person. Shit. Fuck. Damn it all. I slowly wheeled my carriage to the young man’s aisle, all the while thinking, Should I leave. I could just walk away. But then he’ll have to re-shelve all this stuff and he doesn’t deserve that type of shame. Just be a big girl. Get in line. Don’t make eye contact. Pay with cash. Get it over with.
And so the Emo-ish young man with the eyebrow piercings and mascara and the rakish black hair watched me pile the counter with my purchases and patiently scanned each horrifying item and placed it in a thin, single shopping bag. And though I know I have had no influence on his future sexual leanings and I know that he has only been taking his own sweet time digesting his homosexuality, I still feel responsible. That poor, poor check out boy will never look at a woman the same way again. I could hear the echo of his inner shriek all the way out to my car.
Next time I’m shopping out of state.
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