I finally arrive at the front of the line at the Rite-Aid pharmacy for my prenatal vitamins, holding onto a toddler with one hand, uncomfortably cradling my monster stomach in the other. An urge to pee like you wouldn’t even believe. Seriously. Don’t try. You wouldn’t even. A cash register opens up — and an elderly woman with a walker butts right in front of me. I say nothing, maturely roll my eyes and mouth “What the f-ck?!” behind her back. I may or may not have peed my pants a little.
RUDE ELDERLY WOMAN: [MUTTERS SOME RUSSIAN TO THE PHARMACY ASSISTANT]
KOREAN-AMERICAN PHARMACY ASSISTANT: Huh?
WOMAN: [SHOVES A PIECE OF PAPER TOWARD HIM, MUTTERS SOMETHING]
ASSISTANT: Do you need a recommendation? Because I’m not a pharmacist.
WOMAN: [SHAKES HEAD, POINTS TO THE PIECE OF PAPER]
ASSISTANT: Um, that’s in aisle seven, ma’am.
WOMAN: [CLEAR ENGLISH] Take me there.
ASSISTANT: I have a whole line of people waiting here, ma’am. I can’t just leave —
WOMAN: TAKE ME!
ASSISTANT: [FED UP] KY-JELLY IS IN AISLE SEVEN. Seven. With the LU-BRI-CANTS!
ME: [START TO GIGGLE, THEN REALIZE:] Oh my god. This old lady is having sex and the only thing getting down MY pants these days is a trickle of urine. Talk about a sobering thought.