In Defense of the Drugstore
These omniscient, harsh fluorescent lights raised me. I stalk the aisles getting nothing I need but everything I want. Head and shoulders, gummy bears, Lexapro, and a greeting card that expresses condolences for my cousin’s cat passing. It pains me that this card costs $4.99 because I’ve yet to forget the time her cat scratched my nose the day before picture day in fifth grade. It scabbed and I’m more of a dog person anyway. Consumerism has gone too far, we know this. Our feeds are clogged with labubu’s, Diet Coke, and the newest sneakers from our friends at Adidas. I hate it. But if I hate it so much then why is the drugstore my favorite place on Earth? Walgreens, CVS, Duane Reade, it doesn’t matter to me. My heart beats for any drugstore all the same; similar to our current sitting President, I don’t discriminate.
I grew up here. When it was time to dabble into makeup in sixth grade, my mom drove me to Walgreens to pick up Maybelline Dream Matte Mousse Foundation and the pink and green tube of mascara. The bright orange foundation accentuated whatever color rubber bands I picked for my braces last visit and more importantly diverted from the insecurity I was trying to cover up that week. The drugstore gave me the very tools to hide the parts of me I didn’t want the world to see. It supported me through my most awkward years when I needed a steady friend.
Years have passed and now I have swapped picking up Skittles for picking up my prescription. With each year that passes and more life experiences under my belt, the drugstore continues on this path right next to me. I zigzag through the aisles before I make it to the pharmacy desk because you never know when you’ll need a portable fan in the middle of a Chicago winter. The most charming part of this love affair is when the pharmacist loudly yells out my date-of-birth and medication name. Everyone should know what’s wrong with me so my lifelong dream of being left alone can finally come to fruition. This portable fan coupled with my SSRI are just a few plates in the armor that the drugstore has helped me build.
I celebrate and commemorate here. I rejoice and commiserate here. The wall of greeting cards may seem daunting to an average person but I find comfort in this word jungle. I think about my childhood friends who I’ve known for twenty years as I pass birthday cards and I mourn the loss of all who have gotten married before the age of 30 as I pass the “Congratulations!” cards. I pass the snack aisle as I make my way to the cash register. Joyce asks how my mom is while she scans my blue Gatorade Zero. I reply, “just great,” and I pretend I don’t feel guilty in this commercialist’s dream.
Patricia is an amateur writer and aspiring senior citizen. In her free time, you can find her campaigning for the first ever business-run government: Walgreens (President) and CVS (VP).
Instagram: @patriciajustice