contains adult theeems
So, here's my misadventure of the day-- or the most prominent one anyway, because my day has been filled with all of the usual blunders, including faceplanting on the ice more than once and the embarrassing things I do on a daily basis at work.
Guess what? I bought my first Christmas present today. That tells you everything you need to know about me, seriously. If you looked up 'last minute' in the dictionary, my mugshot would be all over that entry. Not that 'last minute' would even be in the dictionary, being two words. Anyway.
Shopping time was coming to an end and it was nearing the time I'd arranged to meet my dad down the local pub for a bit of a natter and a catch-up over a pint, and I decided to quickly pop into Boots to get some make-up for my sister. On my way to the counter I paused by the 'family planning' aisle shelf.
Why's it called that, anyway? Most of the merchandise is there to prevent families, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, it's Christmas and my boyfriend has managed to put up with my ludicrous life for yet another year so I decide to treat him a little and pick up something special. I glance towards the counters: cool-looking young ladies as far as the eye can see. Excellent. I pick up a Durex pleasure pack and tiptoe over to join the queue.
Lalala. Daydream about ninja attacks while queuing. All is well.
AND THEN. When I am the very next person to be called up the counter, I hear a booming voice from all the way down the other side of the counter. "Can I help you?"
Oh shit. It's an intimidating looking gent with a massive beard and crazy eyes.
Instead of replying, "No, you really can't," like I should have, I made my way over there, every step seeming to draw me closer to death by guillotine instead of the purchase of Rimmel eyeliner and a Durex pleasure pack. My internal voice is no help: it just swears for a bit.
I put my two items down on the counter like offerings to a shrine.
He looks at them. I look at him. He looks at me. I look at them. He looks at them. It's like a three-way staring match between me, him and a pack of condoms. I wouldn't have been surprised if the box has sprouted eyes and started looking around at us all.
"I know I look twelve in my pink bobble hat," I want to say, "But I am over the age of consent by two years. And in a committed relationship. With someone who is also over the age of consent. I'm a nice girl. I once had therapy due to issues with sex. It's only really quite recently that I've been able to enjoy it. I've never bought a Durex pleasure pack before. OH GOD STOP JUDGING ME."
"A variety of stimulating condoms and lubes," the box of condoms announces on its front with one metaphorical eyebrow quirked.
I want to die.
After about eighteen billion years he scans it through and asks for twelve pounds ninety-eight. I pay in cash. He asks if I want it in a bag. I nod, too scared to speak. He slips it into a bag with distaste and hands it to me over the counter.
"Have a nice Christmas," he says with an expression on his face that continues: ...in your council flat with your eight kids and twelve boyfriends.
"You too," I reply.
And then I run for it.
George had better appreciate this.
Merry Christmas, LJ-ers, by the way!