Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Remind me to take my Boniva before going to Wal-Mart

There's this really charming little cashier at the Wal-Mart we patronize. He's an older man, with very little hair and the cutest pair of eyeglasses, who takes his sweet time as he rings up every item that's on the belt. And by that I mean I once went through his line with a gallon of milk, a nasal aspirator, a pack of diapers, and a box of wine (Don't judge me.) and by the time he handed me my receipt I was hunched over with osteoporosis.
Whoa. I'm sorry. Is that mean? Is making fun of calcium deficiencies off-limits now? I'm asking only because I just had the thought that someone might leave comments about how It's not just a calcium deficiency, Stacey. Yeah, yeah. It's so much more than that, I know - I've seen Sally Field's Boniva commercials. But seriously, by the time he has scanned the damn wine my pelvic bone had snapped in two.
Naturally, I now avoid his line like the plague. Always on the lookout for another line - but today - oh today, was my lucky day. His was the only one with less than 3 people in it. Maybe because everybody else is avoiding him, too. And I suddenly felt so sorry for him that I walked right up in the line, hopeful that maybe, just maybe, today he'd had a B12 injection or was experimenting with doses of Adderall.
I watched as the baby in the cart of the lady in front of me, grew up, got his driver's license, went to college, got married, had babies...okay, maybe not. Poor thing. His mother had no idea. She missed it all because she was too busy unloading her cart. It was taking him several minutes to choose which item he wanted to scan first. When he grabbed the bag of apples, I was all Oh, fiddlesticks! (I'm working on this whole not-cussing-in-front-of-hoodlums-thing. Humor me.)  Because whenever he scans anything like that, or something that requires a memorized numerical code for him to punch in, he stops, inhales a deep breath as if it is his last, looks over his shoulder in the direction of the produce section, and then closes his eyes for as long as it takes one of my bones to break. It's as if he thinks the produce section is going to yell, "Hey, Harold! Six four two! Six four two!" 
I'm not going to lie. It's really freaking adorable. 

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