The experiences and exploits of a college grad trying to make it in the "real world:" leaving school and friends in New England, moving south, and living with her boyfriend. Watch as I pretend to be an adult.
I wouldn't exactly call myself squeemish. Well, maybe about spiders...er, anyway. I'm definately not a prissy girly girl, and I don't get grossed out easily. I've volunteered at vet clinics and hospitals, grown up with animals, and seen a lot of pretty "icky" stuff. So, when I found out I had ringworm, I wasn't that freaked out. I mean, it isn't the cutest thing in the world, but come on; it's just a fungus. It wasn't disfiguring or horrifying to look at- just a red ring about the size of a quarter on the outside of my hip. I resigned myself to getting some anti-fungal creme and didn't think too much more about it. That is, until I had to actually buy the medication. You see, anti-ringworm medication is the same stuff they use for...well...athlete's foot. And even worse: jock itch. As I stood in the first aid section of the super market, I thought, "Oh god...I have to buy something that is marketed for jock itch? JOCK ITCH?!? Oh, no..." I felt my face flush as a couple passed by me, and pretended to study the shoe insoles hanging above the dreaded ointment. Why, oh why didn't they have girl anti-fungal creme? Something in a discrete, pretty purple tube with flowers. But, oh no... they're all manly and say things like "Powerfull jock-itch fighter!" and "Tough acting athlete's foot creme!" in huge GLARING LETTERS that let EVERYONE know you have a gross disgusting fungus! I am a girl. A girl! A girl should never, ever have to buy something that treats...those things. Girls get anti-wrinkle cremes, or under-eye cream, or pore minimizing creme. Only nasty, sweaty, dirty BOYS get jock itch creme. (shudder) Oh, the humiliation. I stood in the aisle and writhed in embarassment. I vascillated. I waffled. I almost turned and walked away. After much knashing of teeth and wringing of hands, I threw the littlest tube of creme I could find (Tinactin, if you must know) in my basket and finished my shopping. You would have thought the worst was over- but no. There was still...(dum dum dum) the checkout line. I solved this dilema by walking up and down the row of checkout stations until I found one with a cashier who looked like she didn't speak english. I unloaded my basket and nestled the tinactin in among my other purchases (Please god, let her not recognize what I'm buying), fighting down a blush as she scanned each item. Resisting the urge to cut and run, I swiped my debit card and got the hell out of there...the offending tube safely hidden in a plastic bag.
The ringworm is gone now, but the embarassment? Oh, that remains.
After 22 posted at 5:04 PM
