She Deserves So Much Better Than Me

I started having some kind of rash – nothing for medical journals but it was bothering me. I had no idea what it was, eczema, heat rash, old-guy skin, who knows but instead of rolling the dice with one of the hospitals here I thought I’d just go to a pharmacy and get something over-the-counter. The pharmacies here look similar to those in the U.S.; white walls, white tile floors, white counters, and employees wearing white medical jackets. They do not have the number of OTC meds and few western brands (we’ve never found Tylenol here), and there’s no 'back area' where a pharmacist would be working filling prescriptions - really not sure where those medications come from. But one item that jumps out that you can’t find in the U.S. is “virginity soap.” It’s a bar of soap in metallic silver box with a picture of a woman in a field full of flowers. On the box it says something like, “restores your virginity for a fresh feeling…”  I tried it and it sort of worked - my face broke out and I had a tremendous feeling of insecurity. One of the other products that are very different is skin lightening products. Lots of them. Different soaps and creams that lighten the color of someone’s skin. The cultures (Indian) that use these are those that have traditionally believed lighter colored skin to be more desirable and prosperous. Meanwhile, whitey America spend billions on tanning beds, tanning products, spray tans, to look darker. I guess the grass is always greener (lighter green or darker green) on the other side, eh?

It was grocery day weekend, and no two grocers carry the same things - and just because they have it one week, does not mean they will have it the next. We decided to go to Carrefore (Middle Eastern Wal Mart) at Bawadi Mall. This choice allowed Melissa to shop in peace while I had my traditional fat-free cappuccino and read the newspaper. Noah would bounce between us as he made the rounds of his normal stores – video games, sporting goods, candy kiosks,and a few clothes shops. I finished my coffee and found the two of them in the dairy isle (the dairy isle is the last isle before checking out so the milk doesn’t get warm). I told Melissa I was going to see if the pharmacy had anything for my rash and would meet her on the other side of the check-out, which is right by the pharmacy. It’s a small place so after a few seconds looking under the ‘skin’ sign, I decided to just ask the pharmacist.

“Can I help you?” the female pharmacist said from behind the counter.

I leaned in a little bit so no one else could hear and said, “Hi, yes, uh, what do you have for a rash?”

She looked me over for a moment trying to spot the problem area. “What kind of rash is it?”

Having not put any thought into what she would ask me, I had no prepared responses ready.

“Uh, I don’t know,” was the best I could come up with.

“Is it for you?”

This is where the tires meet the pavement for the sacred bond between a pharmacist and a customer – you have to be able to tell your health care professional the truth, in complete confidence so they can accurately treat you. I decided to just lie.

“Uhhh, no, it’s for my wife.” I mean I quickly rationalized that she doesn’t know Melissa so what’s the problem if I say it’s for her? The pharmacist nodded and began contemplating all the possibilities of what the rash could be and how to best treat it.

“Is she a little fat?” (People in the Middle East do not ‘beat around the bush,’ in their discussions. They can be very frank in their speech but no offense is met – just factional.) Of course the answer was ‘no’ but we weren’t really talking about Melissa (I’m working on it). I was too embarrassed to tell her the rash cream was for me, but what kind of husband would I be to tell anyone, let alone another woman, even a pharmacist, that my wife is fat because I didn’t want to say it’s for me?

“Uh, yes, uh, she’s a little fat,” escaped from my dry, lie-filled mouth before I could stop it. I looked around to see if Melissa was coming - the coast was clear but I knew I had to hurry. The pharmacist turned around for what seemed like hours as I kept looking over my shoulder for Melissa and Noah, and then she brought back a grey plastic jar.

“Try this,” then she continued with its application. “The heat gets trapped in the fat rolls…have her put this on after her shower, before she starts sweating in her fat.” (I heard my 'good guy' voice saying to me, 'Just stop it. Stop it now. It's not too late. Tell her the truth - that it's for you, that it's for your fat...I mean come on, she's not a blind pharmacist - she knows it's for you. You look like Santa for God's sake, just tell the truth and everything will be fine.')

“Okay, I'll tell her. Thank you,” I said as I ran from the pharmacy and straight into Melissa and Noah pushing the cart of groceries.

“Did you find anything?” she said with honest concern.

“Yes, honey, we’ll see if this works,” I said as I pulled my ball cap down trying to hide my face of shame.

“Good baby, I’m glad.”

I am going to hell for sure, rash and all.