
God bless the 24-hour Rite Aid down the street from my house. When I need Peanut M&Ms, a last-minute prescription refill, or a passive-aggressive interaction with a cashier, it’s there for me no matter what time it is. And I go in there unapologetically, too. It doesn’t matter if I’m right off work wearing a nice flannel shirt or if it’s 2 AM and I’m wearing my pajama pants. I own that place.
I give a polite smile to the security guard every time I walk in, and he always returns it with twice the strength. I don’t know why. I’m not there to see him. I’m there because it’s been a long day and daddy needs a cookie fix.
I learned that I was out of toilet paper at a very inconvenient time last night. I walked into the Rite Aid all set to buy four new rolls for $1. But the neurotic muscle in my brain started flexing immediately – “Wait a minute, if I only buy toilet paper right now, the cashier will know that I have to poop. That’s too embarrassing.”
At the last minute, I picked up a few candy items to throw her off. I was less secure with her knowing that I was due for a bowel movement than I was with her realizing I eat like a child.



