You Know Why I Hate Fake Boobs?

I'll tell you why I hate fake boobs. Because tonight there is a woman somewhere out there putting hope in a bottle of iron tablets. That's why I hate fake boobs.

I suppose I should back up a bit, lest you think the drugnazi has spent another Friday night with his friend Mr. Scotch. It all starts when a woman comes up to the counter and asks what kind of vitamin might be good to take to help a person's energy. Every pharmacist has been asked this. Here's how the conversation usually goes:

Me: Most of the time a person feels run down it's because they're just working too hard, not getting enough sleep, stressed out, that kind of thing, and there's not really a vitamin that's going to help with that. There are times when a vitamin deficiency can make a person feel tired, but it's usually a case of a person pushing themselves too hard.

About half the people will stop here, agree that they are indeed working too hard and stressed out, and leave with a smile on their face. People take acknowledgement that they are being run into the ground as one of the most wonderful complements they can receive.

The other half goes into "I am going to buy something no matter what you tell me" mode. Every pharmacist is familiar with this as well. Getting some rest is anti-american on so many levels. Not only are you not working hard when you give your body time to recharge, you are not buying anything, thereby contributing to the downfall of western civilization just as surely as Osama Bin Ladin himself. (remember Osama? George Bush doesn't) These patriotic Americans get the "it's possible a deficiency in iron or vitamin B could cause a person to be chronically tired, however, YOU SHOULD HEAR FROM A DOCTOR that this is the problem in your case before you try taking anything." speech

The customer, having been instructed on a possible way to spend money, will never fail at this point to immediately go to the vitamin aisle, and the lady tonight was no exception. She returns shortly with a bottle of iron tablets and one more question:

"There's been a lot of blood when I poo-poo. Will these help with that too?"

Ok, this is serious now. This woman needs a DOCTOR, and the drugnazi tells her this in no uncertain terms.

She gets very quiet, then asks, "Do you know where I could buy health insurance?" She's probably undocumented, and obviously a pretty recent arrival, but knows enough about the system to know uninsured=screwed.

I tell her about the low income clinic down the street, the one that hasn't been able to keep it's doors open on a regular basis since the regular doctor left. I think he burned out. I don't really blame him. She gave me a quiet thank you and I knew that she was going to take those goddamn iron tablets hoping they were going to fix everything.

As she walked out the door, I thought of this guy I knew in high school. Maybe the only person I've ever met whom I might say is as smart as me, he went to med school, and, as some of you might have guessed already, is now a plastic surgeon. Last I heard he limited his practice almost exclusively to rich women who's self esteem can be tied to having either salt water or a silicon/oxygen polymer placed under their boob skin. "That way I don't have to deal with the riff raff" he told me at our last high school reunion.

It's a lot easier to hold the riff raff in contempt when you don't have to look them in the eyes. I can't get that woman's face out of my mind. I may be the only one who cares about her and I can't help. I hate fake boobs.