Moving Shrub in Aisle 6
My husband and I are well entrenched in our 30’s, have two children, and are otherwise fine, respectable citizens. Yet for some reason, we seem unable to refer to normal sexually-related words without euphemism.
Take condoms, for instance, which we affectionately call condos. Sex? The Spanish actividades.
The other day, the Husband said, “I wonder if I should get a vasectomos.”
(Yes, we are a disgrace to high school Spanish teachers everywhere.)
What is it about these terms that reduces intelligent adults to child-like code? It’s not like we’re teenagers with zits and braces that snort when we hear proper anatomical terms (at least not most of the time). I swear, I was born four decades ago!
I am a full-grown adult, but still opt to purchase my condos online rather than the whole covert, nonchalant song and dance in the personal hygiene aisle at the local grocery store. I prefer to study the various products in the comfort of my living room on the computer screen than doing 4 or 5 aisle drive-bys so I won’t trigger suspicions of the guy looking at plantar wart remedies one display over. And then, there’s the whole strategic placement of the box of condos between the large box of Cheerios and the view-blocking head of lettuce on the conveyor belt. La-la-la-la-la. Nothing to look at here. Carry on!
Cashier, don’t judge me! I’m not a sexual deviant for buying an economy pack! I just don’t want to have to come back and do this again anytime soon! Please, let there not be a price check, for the love of God!
Am I too immature to have borne children of my own? Maybe. I blame society. In the meantime, if you see a moving shrub in Aisle 6 moving stealthily past the toothpaste, don’t call security. And, please, for Pete’s sake, don’t shoot.
