.
.Whatever. I am a twenty-year-old woman. Making this kind of purchase does not bother me. I am far too mature to be fazed by such a responsibility. Except, I have never had such an awkward experience with it as I did today.
My first priority was getting paper plates, for a class party we are having on Wednesday. Then I picked up some conditioner. Then, as I walked confidently towards the section for feminine hygiene, it happened.
The creamery was suddenly swarmed by all the freshman boys currently living at Heritage. Seven of them, all about eight feet tall, nonchalantly set up camp right in front of my targeted purchase. They looked around, discussing how they should be at Subway instead. I couldn't have agreed more. I wanted them to be at Subway, too.
After idly looking over the hair products for a few minutes, I got tired of waiting. I marched up to them, determined not to be awkward. "Excuse me," I said.
"Oh, sorry," said one of them, and started to meander away. His friends turned to look at what I needed. Twelve eyes fell on the tampons, six necks turned red, and six awkward freshman boys scattered to all corners of the store. I might as well have been buying the antidote to the plague.
Still, in my earnest desire to avoid awkwardness, I took my time to make an educated decision about exactly which brand and box I wanted. I then walked up to the cash registers, where I was rejoined by the six giant freshmen, still talking about how great it would be if they were at Subway instead of the Creamery. I don't know what was keeping them there.
I put my conditioner, paper plates, and tampons on the little conveyor belt. The lady at the register snatched the tampons off the belt, scanned them, and threw them in a bag. Then she smiled sympathetically at me. "How is your day going?" she asked, her voice oozing with compassion.
I smiled. "Great!" I said. She smiled knowingly and started scanning my other items. "How's yours?" I asked.
"Pretty good," she said, and told me my total. I paid, thanked her, and left the Creamery.
Never to return again, because I just don't think I can handle it.
