I don’t get sick very often, but with the insane lack of sleep that’s been beating me down now for three straight weeks, combined with the fact that my husband’s been traveling for those very same three straight weeks, it’s no surprise that I’d end up feeling like death warmed over. All I wanted to do yesterday was to crawl in my big, comfy bed and snooze this virus right away. That was most certainly not in the cards for me, though, since I am the only “responsible” adult available around here. Luckily, my daughter had a playdate after school, so I was only left with one kid and one devil dog to try to control. I was barely functioning, though, and in desperate need of some kind of temporary relief from my symptoms. Since our selection of cold medicine in the cabinet was running low, I dragged my little man with me to the grocery store to stock up for the night.
As I stood there in the medicine aisle staring at the vast array of choices, my pounding head couldn’t be bothered to make any rational kind of decisions. I mean, really, what difference did it make if I took drowsy or non-drowsy at that point? I was already a walking zombie anyway, so, rather than hem and haw over it, I just grabbed four different kinds and headed to the register. The cashier couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old and was WAY too peppy for my last bit of patience. I’m quite certain I didn’t look like I was in the mood for chit chatting, but Young Clueless was yapping a mile a minute about their special deal of the week. When he finally got around to doing the job he was paid to do, he stopped in his tracks to call out for assistance.
Turns out that you have to be eighteen years old to even scan cold medicine! When I asked why, he told me it was because of the growing problem of using the ingredients in cold medicines to make crystal meth. My brain was too fried at the time to really process this, but what the hell difference does it make if he’s eighteen or not? Is it because he isn’t mature enough to red flag a customer who’s buying a shit ton of cold meds? Or is it because they’re afraid he’s going to steal the cold meds to set up his own meth lab? I don’t get it! After I paid for my purchases, he told me that he was really surprised that I was allowed to buy four different kinds because they usually limit it to three. ”You don’t really look like you’re gonna set up a lab, though,” he said with a chuckle. Hmmm, what tipped you off there, young blood? Was it the six year old child attached to my arm or was it the bag of marshmallows that said child talked me into purchasing? Actually, as awful as I’m sure I looked with the bags under my puffy eyes, a nose that looked like Rudolph’s, and my ratted out ponytail, I suppose I could’ve very easily passed as a meth addict. However, I think my suburban naivete was shining right through my rough-around-the-edges exterior. I told the kid that not only would I have no concept of how to even begin to make crystal meth, I don’t have the freakin’ time to set up my Halloween decorations, let alone a meth lab!
So, I took my bag of feel goods home and spent the night alternating between blowing my nose right off my face and popping NyQuil. I feel hungover and woozy today, but the show must go on. Moms just don’t have time to be sick. But, if I get a wild hair up my ass, I suppose I could now turn my kitchen into a drug den with all the new additions to my medicine cabinet.