Traumatized

Things will never be the same again.

So there I was at CVS, just waiting in line to buy some of those pre-shaped foam ear plugs (those bad boys can save your marriage) and a bottle of midnight black fingernail polish (I have no excuse for this). The guy in front of me (buying condoms! hee hee! condoms!) was taking forever with his purchase (”Price check on Living Large brand prophylactics… price check, please…”– okay, not really, but I imagined it played out that way), so in order to stop myself from the inevitable impulse candy bar buy, I turned away from the cash register, you know, to kind of look around, not think about candy bars, see the pla– Good LORD! As I turned, I caught sight of an entire WALL of candy situated directly behind me. A wall! Of candy! Directly behind me! And it was all “Mwah ha ha! You WILL buy candy on impulse! It is futile to resist! We are yummy candy! Mwah ha ha!” Stupid CVS. This is what is called “playing dirty.”

Is this what traumatized me? No. It gets worse.

The guy in front of me finally finished his transaction and hurried off to Live Large somewhere. I stepped up and threw my newly acquired bag of York Peppermint Patties (stupid CVS) and the box of ear plugs onto the counter, and reached into my purse to grab my wallet. I was clutching my keys in one hand (if they go in the purse, they will not come back out without a fight, I’m just saying) so I did the one-handed credit card swipe, then stood waiting, faux pen at the ready. I admit I was not really paying too much attention to what was going on around me as I was still cracking prophylactic jokes in my head– No glove, no love!… Don’t be silly, protect your wi– “Wait, what?”

“Here’s your receipt,” the cashier repeated, shoving my receipt in my face. “Thankyouhaveaniceday… next!”

Is this a new thing? I thought to myself as I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. Why did I not have to sign? What if I were not really me, huh?! What if I were someone named Ted! What then?!

Is this what traumatized me? No. I’m almost there.

I pushed open the glass door with my free hand, the one clutching my keys, and walked out. I could totally be someone named Ted, and they wouldn’t even care. This is completely unaccept– OH SWEET MOTHER OF HEAVEN! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

In my hand, nestled comfortably in my palm with my keys, was a small bottle of midnight black fingernail polish. And I had just exited the building, which meant…

We interrupt this story to take a walk down memory lane, to sneak a peek at Cat’s past, if you will. You see, in high school– this may come as a shock to you, so be warned– Cat was on the cheerleading squad. I know, right? Unbefreakinglievable. Regardless, she was, so deal. Anyway, during the summer between her junior and senior year, the cheerleading squad went out to California for cheer camp, and you know what that means. Disneyland, that’s what! Wait. What did you think I was going to say? Anyway, about an hour after we entered The Happiest Place On Earth, the Varsity cheerleaders split up for fifteen minutes– Cat, finished with her shopping, went with the JV squad to score some churros while the older girls went into yet another gift shop for “one last souvenir”– with the promise to meet Cat at Cinderella’s Castle. Sadly, the girls never showed, and Cat had to spend the day with a group of giddy, hyper, boy-crazy JV cheerleaders. But this story has a silver lining. You see, all the Varsity girls knew that Cat was what they affectionately called ” a goody-goody,” so they purposefully left her out of the loop when they decided that “one last souvenir” actually meant “a shoplifted piece of merchandise,” knowing full well her response would be, “Oh, hell to the NO!” As it turns out, they were not even half as good at shoplifting as they were at cheerleading, because they were stone-cold busted and hauled off to Mickey Jail. And that is the story of how Cat was selected as head cheerleader her senior year.

So… where was I? Ah, yes.

In my hand, nestled comfortably in my palm with my keys, was a small bottle of midnight black fingernail polish. And I had just exited the building, which meant…

Oh dear LORD! I’m a thief! A shoplifter! Did they see? Do they know? Did they push the silent alarm? OMG, I bet they pushed a silent alarm! Like Wallace did in that episode of Veronica Mars! Man, I loved that episode. It was awesome, right? Hey! Focus, stickyfingers! Are the police on their way? Do I hear sirens? There is nothing else for it, I’ll have to take it on the lam.

Of course, all these thoughts swirled through my head in the minute it took for me to push open the door, step outside, and stand frozen in place for several heart-pounding seconds before I turned around and headed right back into the store, where I confessed and threw myself at the mercy of the CVS manager.

They were very kind about it, but I was horrified. Traumatized! And the truth is, I was not so much upset that I had accidentally walked out of the store without paying for a three-dollar bottle of nail polish. Oh, no. What horrified me was that for one brief second– so brief! a blip! a nano second!– I remember experiencing the most exhilarating rush of adrenaline and thinking, I TOTALLY snaked that bottle of polish and freaking got AWAY with it! Woo! I’m BAD!

I know, right? I’m shocked at myself. Shocked! Because for one second… just one teensy second… it felt good to be bad.

I’m so ashamed.

But a little proud.

But mostly ashamed.

Things will never, ever be the same again.

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