Prescription For Health, Sort Of

For someone who is not, you know, dying of cancer or treating a highly infectious disease, I go to the pharmacy a lot. Well, it seems like a lot, it's really three times a month - which according to my sister looks like if I forget to take one of my pills my arms will fall off.

So, I decided to cut some of them out, because they're not all for keeping my arms attached, they're mostly for anti-baby, anti-herpes virus. (Not on my vag Richard Alpert! I mean cold sores. We can still make love without fear of STDs!)(And by love, I mean hardcore frenching) (down there)(just kidding) (oh my god my little cousins read this now and I feel like I have to censor myself. I'm not gonna - you guys should stop reading if it's inappropriate ok? I didn't mean hardcore frenching. I meant sex. With a fictional character from a tv show based on the idea that it's going to try to explode all of America's brains so that they don't have to actually explain anything that happened with the g.d. Oceanic Six.)

Anyway, unfortunately I didn't think through my plan of weaning myself off things one at a time very well. Because if I was a smart man I would have started with the most embarrassing and then worked my way down to a thyroid prescription so low it practically just stops by in the morning to wave and make sure I still have a thyroid gland in there. But nooooooo, I do the dumb thing and save the most mortifying for last. And it never, ever fails that when I go to pick up this prescription it's the cute pharmacist boy who appears out of nowhere. All month its a gaggle of girls until I go in and then suddenly it's this boy. And it's not like I want to date and/or make out with him, he's like 18, and he's not even that cute it's just the fact that it's ALWAYS him and he ALWAYS has no idea who I am, and then when he goes to get my prescription he's all:

"Last name?"

"Stern."

"Just this one-Oh. . . ah . . . just the one?"

"Yes, just the one."

Then he looks at me all weird, like checking my face and he sees I don't have a cold sore, so it's got to mean that the prescription is for something lower, and he scans down to my pants for a split second (yeah, because my vaginal herpes is going to shine through my jeans!) and then puts on his face mask and gloves and hands it to me by his fingertips. Usually I just turn bright red, take the thing and run, but I had a glass of wine in me last night, and that mixed with the three beers I was a little more chatty than I should have been.

"I don't have herpes."

"Oh, what?"

"I mean, I do, clearly because you're holding my Valtrex prescription out for God and the rest of the world to see, but it's not for what you think it's for," I turn around to the line behind me. "It's not for down there, ok everyone. It's just for when I get stressed out. Or sunburned. On my lips."

"I didn't think that."

"You didn't?"

"No, you look clean."

"Well, that's totally inappropriate and weird. But thanks."

Oh eighteen year old pharmacy kid, maybe customer service isn't for you?

So, I worked the wrong direction. But soon enough I'll be off everything and I won't have to see Pharmacy boy again - except for when I go to get my diaphragm prescription filled and he and the rest of the staff gather around to discuss it at the loudest volume possible, before telling me this isn't 1955, and I should get back in my time machine and see if Doc Brown can fill this.