Chapter Eleven: The Next Generation

Okay - I couldn't think of a better title.

But this story is not as humorous as it is unbelievable. My, oh my, times have surely changed. I'm only 22 years old, and I feel like an old lady. I know people begin to say that when they enter their twenties and compare themselves to youngsters, but seriously - I feel like an old lady. I don't understand why children need cell phones. Where do they go alone? Even if they're not with their parents, surely they're not out wandering the town without an adult. I didn't have a phone until I had a driver's license. And even then, I couldn't text for another year. (And maybe I'm just jealous of a fourth grader.)

A nine year old kid was studying the few pre-paid cell phones that we carry. His mother left him there to take his little sister to the bathroom. With a pencil box full of change in one hand and his purchase in the other, he approached the front and slid the Net 10 cell phone on the counter. He immediately started to count his change.

After he paid, he lingered at the checkout because his mom was taking a while. So I began to ask him questions about what school he went to and what grade he was in. I'm sure I scared him a little bit but I had no idea what else to talk to him about. As a child, I watched Matlock and played Nintendo. I had an inkling, he knew nothing about either subject.

Anyway -

I said "Is this your first phone?"

"No. It's my third."

My jaw dropped. "Third?! How old are you?"

"Nine."

"And how old were you when you got your first phone?"

"Four. I just keep dropping them in the toilet."

"Are you kidding me?... Guess how old I was when I got my first phone."

"Ten?" he guessed after much consideration.

"Sixteen."

"Whoa," he whispered. Somehow he was more shocked that I didn't have a phone until my sixteenth birthday than I was that he had one at age four, the year I got an Easy Bake Oven for christmas.

Chapter Ten: The Pathophobic

True Story:

I have never been sick as often as I have been since I started working at (insert popular drugstore chain name). I mean, it makes sense. It's a pharmacy, so most of my customers are sick. So when I had to go into work while sick b/c no one was able to cover, I should have prepared myself for what I would encounter.

I should explain that I wore my hair up.

No make up.

A nose brighter than Rudolph's.

Eyes glazed over.

Tissues stuffed in my fleece pockets.

Armed with hand sanitizer.

I mostly heard "Oh! You're sick?! Feel better."

I often heard "You know how to get rid of that, right? Vitamin C."

And I never grew tired of "You look terrible. Why are you here?"

But my most memorable experience through this hazy day was with a middle-aged woman, who I later diagnosed as a pathophobic (someone who is afraid of getting an illness).

She came up to the register and piled everything on the counter.

I began scanning the items and bagging them. I told her what her total was.

And she just looked at me and said "See. You're sick. And now I have to touch that stuff."

"I'm very sorry," I apologized. "I've been using a lot of hand sanitizer today, I assure you."

She paid, grabbed her stuff and left.

The next morning, she came back to return an item. And she was mortified to see that I was still employed at the store. I quickly gave her a refund and sent her on her way.

No more than three hours later, she returned.However, it was hard to recognize her. She had a sweatshirt on, hood up, gloves (this story is a few months old; and I'm telling you - the gloves weren't necessary), and a medical mask that covered most of her face... And I know that entire week is one giant blur, but I swear she looked almost like the lady in this picture. Any national quarantine crisis would be lucky to have her. She approached the line and bought something new. When I finally noticed it was the same woman from before, my jaw dropped. She wouldn't look me in the eye. And she was on the move, like her speed would somehow keep her healthy. I felt as if I'd been shunned and direct eye contact would have sentenced her to death or hell for sure.

It's probably best. Had she stayed any longer, I may have felt a sudden urge to cough.

Chapter Nine: The Disorderly Elderly

Like I've said before, I only write on this blog when there's something to share. Hence the huge time gap from my previous post. Yes, I know. Three months. Who cares. There was nothing to write about. I'm not one for blogging and this is primarily for my own journaling purposes anyway. And I'm too scatterbrained to keep track of an actual journal.

Today, a man came in and asked me to show him where the batteries were. I'd guess he'd be about seventy years old. While we walked down the center aisle, I asked him if I could see the battery he had in his hand to compare it to what he might need. He held out his hand. I took the battery and he immediately grabbed my hand and said "I'll hold your hand too." Okay. Someone please tell me: where in the store manual does it tell me what to say or do in this situation? I'm pretty sure this scenario is not specified. I panicked. I have the tendency to be abnormally uncomfortable in these situations already. So I said "Ummmmmmmmm.... thanks" and pulled my hand away.

Um, thanks?! Really. Great, Ash. If that's not an invitation to a 70 year old, I don't know what is.

I wish I could say this is the worst of my experiences, but I'd say previous posts have proven me wrong.