So with that said...
Not long ago...in a galaxy far, far away...
It was toiletry time. Time to head into Duane Reade with my list, grab the little red basket and go nucking futs getting stuff to, once again, thwart Mother Nature's damnest attempt to turn me into a man. You know, razors, exfoliating gloves, age defying lotion, Neet, cocoa butter...stuff like that. But I also pick up other things while I'm there. Cosmo magazine (Don't laugh. The "tips" are great.). A large bag of Doritos. (They don't have small...OK?) Secret Clinical Strength deodorant. (Why bullshit with the "floral daisy" or whatever? Just go for the big guns if it's an option, right?) And something chocolate. Anything chocolate.
Oh yeah. There's one more thing on the list to pick up as well, which is why I go during an obscure hour. Like... 3pm on a Thursday. Did I walk to the Duane Reade closest to me? Oh no. THAT one is for common shit like toothpaste. For this monthly purchase, I actually walked five blocks out of the way, with my big ass leather purse so that I could 1) inconspicuously buy the product without running into a co-worker who'll have a "Kaiser Sose" moment realizing why I've been such a bitch the past week and 2) I can hold my head high without worrying about a small, green, square-shaped package showing through the nylon sheer "Duane Reade" bag.
Now mind you, everything was going according to plan. The store was pretty empty. They had the large jar of cocoa butter for a change (with 20% extra free!), the razors were in stock, got the other crap...now off to the most un-fucking-comfortable and dreaded section of the store...the "feminine hygiene" aisle.
It's always located waaaay in the back. Or in the basement. It's product placement Siberia and usually near the laundry detergent. However, neither industry is upset about this. Oh you WILL visit Siberia. Oh yes. You will.
A relief, however, is that the FH aisle is almost always empty... because there's nothing more awkward than standing next to another woman who is just as cranky and bloated as you are.
Now, no matter what you know about my so called "strong" personality, all that shit goes out the window and I practically turn into a thirteen year old rookie when I'm in the FH aisle. Dude, I WISH I were one of those women who leisurely strolls over to the aisle, starts picking up boxes, compares absorbency levels and gushes about "wings" being the best thing since sliced bread. (Though, keeping it real, they are.) But I'm not her. Not even close.
There's a time honored method to my monthly trip. I've got no time to lolly gag; I'm on the clock. Get in and get out.
Scan the aisle. Identify favorite brand by color. Double check to make sure it's not a knock off that's been lumped in (it's happened before), toss it in the basket and bounce. Don't run. Makes you look guilty. Just casually stroll away like nothing happened. Well done Bravo Team Leader! Mission accomplished. Then, I pick the shortest checkout line and fall in.
And that's when I see him.
The Unicorn. It never. Ever. Fails.
He's well groomed. He's well dressed. He's "oh snap" attractive. He probably smells good, but I don't sniff the air around him, cuz that's just weird. As I think about that last line, I giggle to myself. Then I notice I'm giggling to myself and cautiously peek to see if I've been labeled crazy. Nope. He's smiling. He's giving eye contact. He's on a parallel line to my left. I'm shyly not really looking at the cover of "US Weekly". I look back. He's still looking. I look down. Into my basket. The basket that screams the following:
"HELLO THERE YOU AGING, DRY, ASHY, HAIRY, CRANKY, CATTY, SMELLY WOMAN ON HER PERIOD! YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD MAKE THIS BASKET COMPLETE? DOUCHE! SOMETHING WITH EXTRA VINEGAR PERHAPS? AHHHHHH! REFRESHING!"
Uh. OK. Move basket into other hand. Shift contents to cover up the pastel green plastic package.
(And that's another thing. Who in the fuck decided that FH products need to be the same color as Easter eggs? Think that makes us feel better about the whole situation? I'm losing a pint right now, but thank goodness the packaging is cheery? Uh, no. I'll tell you what it really does. Makes it fucking damn near impossible to carry that shit to the restroom without your "quick chat" co-workers giving you that..."Oh. Well..let me let you go" once they get a peek at that green plastic. But I digress. Where was I? Oh yeah...)
"NEXT!"
And are we neck and neck to the finish. Is he distracted by paying for his own products you ask? Nnnnnope. U'Nique the clerk happens to be price-checking some lady's trail mix and he's got nothing else to do but wait...and check out what the girl next to him is unloading onto the counter.
"Do you have a Duane Reade card?"
"No." Bitch. I don't. Just ring it up.
Now, this isn't my job, but I've seen clerks do it enough to know that you're supposed to scan and bag. Scan and bag. WHY are you just laying everything out on the...GASP!
Cosmo cover: "THE HOT ISSUE! COSMO'S BIG, JUICY SEX POLL! 30,570 DUDES TELL WHAT THEY'RE DYING FOR YOU TO DO IN BED!"
I place it face down on the counter. The scan-code is on the front, and like my mother trying to teach me a lesson about how learning to be a skank leads to the dark side, the clerk holds the magazine up in the air for all to see, looks at me, then scans.
I glance...he's smiling.
But U'Nique is still waiting for a manager. Bad.
I'm running out of items and soon, I'm going to have no choice. Big Green has got to come out sooner or later...
Here's the razors... (moving things around...) here's the chocolate....and uh... here's the...
"NEXT!"
Thank you U'Nique! He steps up and starts to empty his own basket. Now! Red team go! Red team go!
I reach into my basket, palm the goods and while he's not looking, hand 'em over for scanning. Wow. I did it! Ain't nobody dope as me.... I’m just so fresh and...
"The pads are on sale if you have your club card."
(Record scratch.) Huh?
"THE PADS. ALWAYS MAXI PADS are on sale if you have your club card. It's a dollar cheaper."
Bitch...didn't I just TELL you ...
"It's OK."
"Do you want to apply for one?"
"No. I'm good. Just..."
And there he is. Looking at my pads. Right at my pads. Then at me. Then my pads. Then...not again. Not. Again.
Now, here's where my pseudo-feminist peeve comes into play.
Did I once look into his basket to see if he had nut-fungus cream or whatever the hell it is men come into the drug store for? Nope. Under those shoes, he could have had some serious corns, or been picking up some Rogaine for his looming "George Jefferson". But that wasn't my concern. I'm concerned about my little green package and a man actually knowing I'm a normal, functioning human woman. I actually cared about protecting the male hang-up with the menstrual cycle. And yeah, they've got em. Not all of them I'm sure, but in my very unscientific survey, about zero percent of the guys I know can even stomach looking at the word "tampon", let alone follow it's purpose to the logical conclusion without gagging. And to that, I have one thing to say.
Skid marks. You guys get them. We don't. Ours? Unavoidable. Yours...? I think that makes us pretty much even.
And look. I get it. It's not pleasant. But it's a fact of life. And hey...maybe I didn't dig deep enough into Tolle's teachings, because I still trip out about shit like this. But hey. You didn't have an accident at your Jr. High School Graduation right before you made your Valedictorian speech...in a yellow gown. (I'm working it out. I'm getting better every week.)
So sure. Maybe dude was taken and harmlessly flirting. Maybe he was gay. Maybe it really wasn't that serious and maybe I'm trippin'. All I know is there was no "maybe" that came into play until he saw the big green overnighters with wings. And maybe I was objectified. And maybe I sorta liked it. And maybe the "Oh shit. She's on her period!" thing made me human. And maybe that insulted me. And really. Really. Maybe...that's fucked up. And that's not his fault.
And I'm not going to try to get men to understand what we go through, because...you've got enough on your mind. Shaving and weekly haircuts have got to be a heck of a bother. (Snicker.) The best I can do is work on my personal shame of the cycle...and overcome it. Because I've seen what's next and Lord knows that shit ain't pretty.
...Or at the very least, least write a letter to the Always people suggesting new colors. Cuz really? Pastel? Really though? Really?
