Due to an unfortunate confluence of timing and location, I had to purchase a box o'tampons from a young fella of Middle Eastern persuasion who happened to be jockeying the till at a gas station. I'm sure he was just thrilled.
Lemme 'splain that the point of the story is that I only had a brief "Oh, jeez," moment. In the B.C. (Before Children) era, I might've actually left without purchasing les produits feminins. Or I might've gone on a convenience store shopping spree to camouflage my needs with pencils, gum, a gossip magazine, and one of those horoscope scrolls. But not yesterday! I sucked it up and acknowledged that I'm not always going to find a brick and mortar establishment peopled by earthy wise women. So, I plunked my lonely purchase on the counter, handed over some cash, and walked out. Without a bag, thank you very much.
This may have made you dudes uncomfortable. Oops. But this situation is the woman's equivalent to handing over a box of condoms to an avian, grandmotherly cashier. You know, the kind who wears chains on her glasses and calls you "dear."
Anyway, I'm excited that at 32, I'm officially starting not to care about that stuff.
Oh, the embarrassment I will be to my children.