I love going to the pharmacy. Everything you could possibly need to soothe (or exacerbate) any and all anxieties can be found in a tiny bottle at the pharmacy. My love for the pharmacy started with a headache. I hate having to cut my adventures short while out and about in the city because of a headache, so I went to pharmacy and looked for some Aspirin to keep with me at all times. I found a tiny bottle that I was so smitten by, it was so cute, and sounded like a little squirrel chirping for peanuts whenever shaken. “This is exactly what I need in my life” I though to myself. As I pull the aspirin from the shelf, I notice an equally small sized bottle of Tylenol. “What if I get a headache and a fever?” Well now I have a squirrel for both occasions. The following week I was out riding the metro, feeling confident with my pills at the ready, when I saw an elderly man sneeze a very violent sneeze directly into his hand. I’ve never been one to care much about germs, I don’t wash my vegetables, I wasn’t the most diligent mask wearer during the pandemic, and it’s a coin toss if I wash my hands when I get home at the end of the day, but seeing this man sneeze awakened something in me, a sort of nostalgic disgust. Nostalgic with the memory of my grandfather who would sneeze so loudly you would think he did it to make sure that the Almighty hadn’t dozed off. He would also sneeze into a wad of tissues, a hanker-chief of his own making. While this is only marginally better than sneezing directly into your hand, it’s at the very least somewhat charming. He would also criticize my, according to him, over-use of tissues. As if each blow I took meant one less for him. Maybe that’s why he needed Him awake, if only to keep count. I’ll admit that I did have to blow my nose a lot when I lived with my grandfather. His house was by a wooded marshlands so the allergens really got to me. This reminds me that I need some allergy medication. Back to the pharmacy!
The following summer, I moved out of my dad’s place and into my own. I took nothing but a few outfits, and my beloved pots and pans. I figured I could get away with living austerely for a little while. I thought I had everything I needed until, on the first night in my new home, I tried to take a shower. As a man there are plenty of things I do that should make you ask “how do you live like this?” From the amount of grime around my toilet bowl to the stacks of dishes I leave on the counter, food still inside and hardened to such a degree you would think it was part of the porcelain, it’s clear that the “M” on my drivers license is deserved. But at the very least I recognize taking a proper shower is important, if not for your own wellbeing then at least for the wellbeing of those within nose-shot. My shower routine is not complicated. I use a pretty basic body wash, shampoo, and conditioner setup that are in separate bottles because I’m astutely aware that these things cannot be handled in the so called “all-in-one” bottles of which most men have been tricked into buying. I’m still at a basic competency when it comes to shopping for hygiene products but I figure the stuff at a pharmacy is going to be one step above what they have at the dollar store. Maybe not what you’d find at the hair dresser but certainly better than the stuff your dad has been buying since the Montreal Expos played their last game. While at the pharmacy, I was having a hard time choosing between conditioners. In the last year, I’ve let my hair grow quite long and I’ve tried to learn how to better take care of it. That includes learning about different types of conditioners and how they impact your hair. It can all be quite overwhelming especially when you’ve never considered if you want your hair to smell like honey or shea butter. What even is shea? Those “all-in-one” bottles are much simpler: you buy something called “sport” and call it a day. My head was spinning trying to choose between the “b7 and carotine repair solution” and the “peppermint + witch hazel fortifier” so I decided visit a different isle and wait for the choice to make itself evident in my mind. As I step out of the isle, I notice something very peculiar on the end-of-isle display. There was a shelf full of Band-Aids in dark brown. “This is exactly what I need in my life” I though to myself. The last time I was this excited about Band-Aids was when my mother bought ones that were covered in characters from Sponge-Bob. My excitement was dulled somewhat when I checked the price. They were on sale. I get that we won’t beat white supremacy with racially inclusive bandages but this troubled me slightly. But I still needed them, so I had to accept that while racial justice can come at a cost, it doesn’t mean we can’t take it at a discount!
Winter’s here and the snow is as slippery as ever so I decided that today would be spent inside. I’ve been trying to cook more traditional Guyanese dishes and chose to make cook-up rice. Its a Caribbean risotto, a creamy rice dish made with coconut milk, and assortment of meat, beans, and rice. I had already purchased all the ingredients but my counter was covered in dirty dishes as well as packaging from the food I ordered to procrastinate washing said dirty dishes. As I was cleaning up, I picked up a bag that had a paperclip in it and cut my finger. After the initial shock of drawing blood, my first thought was “I can’t wait to use my brown Band-Aids.” I rush to the bathroom, holding the finger up high to avoid dripping blood and open the box. I pull out a bandage and wrap it around the tip of my finger. “I’m glad I bought these.” I think to myself. My grandmother, who left Guyana to live in Canada 45 years and one week ago makes cook-up rice all the time. She’s better at making it than I am of course, but she still cuts herself from time to time. She had to buy her own Band-Aids when she moved into her home decades ago but the Band-Aids didn’t come in brown back then and I’m sure she had to pay the full price.