Today I had to buy my husband some hemorrhoid cream. He has what my grandmother kindly dubbed “the ’roids.” Until today, I had never purchased hemorrhoid cream, as I have been lucky enough to have never had them. I had no idea how difficult it would be to get through the checkout line with such a product in your buggy (shopping cart, if you didn’t know).
When I first arrived in the store, I searched aimlessly for the aisle containing products that involved ass injuries. I mean, I sort of assumed that all of those things would be congregated in one area. Ironically enough, it was rather close to the lube.
After peeking my head down what seemed like every aisle with a cream looking tube, I finally found the one with the ’roid creams. Unfortunately, there were lots of products claiming to aid in the healing of ’roids, and since the ’roids in question weren’t on me, I wasn’t quite sure which product to get. I knew the suppositories were out of the question. So I picked up some wipes and cream, crossed my fingers, and hoped for the best.
Finally, I ran to the checkout aisle hoping that in my small town I would see no one I happen to know. It seems that when you live in a town this size, you always see at least three people with whom you spent your elementary school years. While it’s nice seeing people that you know for a fact once downed half a bottle of Elmer’s glue, I didn’t want to get caught with the ’roid cream.
Finally, I unloaded my cart all stealth-like. My checkout girl seemed sort of cranky. She also suspiciously eyed the hemorrhoid products as if she might be laughing inside. I had hoped for an older lady who might be sympathetic for a purchaser of ’roid remedies.
“They aren’t for me,” I finally blurted when I realized that the cashier seemed to be turning a precocious hue of red in an attempt to hold in giggles.
