Retail chemical warfare

[stephbg]

It is an unfortunate truth of spoon management that you often have no choice in the timing of most activities. If spoons become available you immediately perform the next item on the to-do list. Thus I found myself shopping for groceries at lunchtime on a Saturday, the busiest time of the week, albeit short of pre-holiday panic shopping for the apocalypse.

I didn't have much trouble with the crowds until I hit the toilet paper aisle, and even then it was just two ladies chatting in the middle of the aisle, shopping trolleys angled for maximum blockage. From the end of the aisle I estimated that they were about where I wanted to be, so in preparing my navigation strategy it was less "Excuse me I wonder if I could squeeze by," and more "I'm terribly sorry but I need to be exactly where you are." I kept an optional "I wonder if we could possibly swap" up my sleeve just in case – I would have to assess the field once closer.

A few feet away from my goal I noticed an intense chemical scent of perfume. This happens in the toilet paper aisle, for there are many scented products contaminating the air so I thought nothing of it. But then I was assaulted by an intense need to sneeze. Normally my sneezes are pretty civilized, in that I can kind of swallow them before they escape. Nothing can prevent Sneeze Face (although I'm shocked no pharmaceutical or cosmetic company has tried to address this scourge of modern beauty), but at least I don't usually contaminate the room.

This time was different. This was a sneeze to mark the ages; a sneeze to launch a thousand ships. It came lightning fast and with inescapable force – I can only reconstruct what it might have looked like to alarmed observers. First, the expression on my face – no ordinary Sneeze Face this, but more a panicked realisation that my head was about to explode and that I might inconvenience other people in the process. Knowing that this one wasn't going to be tamed, I scanned quickly for the most innocent target in my vicinity – the floor! But I was too close to the toilet paper, so I had to leap backwards (or possibly sideways).

To recap: face + leaping, got that?

The trick with the floor sneeze is to get your face as close to the floor as possible, so I jack-knifed over like a mousetrap snapping shut. I assume the laws of physics would have made my long loose blue-green hair go flying in a wide circle in pursuit of my head. In hindsight I'm very glad I didn't do something unfortunate to my back in the process, but maybe the hardening of my diaphragm in readiness for Armageddon provided sufficient spinal support.

To recap again: face + leaping + snapping over + flying hair, ok?

So then, the sneeze itself. Nothing was stopping this motherf$%#er. Nothing. My body had detected an intruder of maximum hazard and wanted it OUT. Right now. No waiting.

KABLOOIE!

(Have you ever seen the Mythbusters episode where they blow a cement truck to smithereens? That.)

Fortunately for all concerned there wasn't much in the way of soggage, there being no time for my immune system to organise a flush. I staggered a bit, arranged a suitably manic wide-eyed Post-Surprise-Sneeze Face, and calmly reached for my hypoallergenic loo paper. Somewhere in the previous couple of seconds the ladies in the middle of the aisle had conveniently teleported backwards several feet, giving me a clear run. But post sneeze and loo paper in hand I was overcome by an overwhelming stench of Personal Hygiene Product Used Incorrectly. My manic wide-eyed Post-Surprise-Sneeze Face morphed quickly into Smelled-Something-Bad-Must-Now-Scrunch-Up-Face-Curl-Lip-And-Cough Face.

One of the ladies looked shaken, and possibly ashamed. "Oh," she said, "that was probably me - I just soaked myself in Rexona." I smiled wryly and pointed to the paper product in hand. "Hypoallergenic," I said--perhaps cryptically--and nodded agreement, eyes streaming as I fled the scene.

Comments

[lauredhel.livejournal.com]

I live for the day where they put the unfragranced deodorant, laundry liquids, toilet paper etc all in one place, away from the HOLD-YOUR-BREATH-SQUINCH-YOUR-EYES-AND-DASH section of the supermarket.

[stephbg.livejournal.com]

It's not entirely impossible, given that there's a growing gluten-free/health section in my local Coles.

[lauredhel.livejournal.com]

Mmm. Maybe a head office letter campaign. Hmmm.

[bunny-m.livejournal.com]

Oh, please may this become a common section in all supermarkets!

Dear assorted retail industries: I *don't* have allergies or medical issues with smell, and I would happily pay a small bit more for reasonable products *that aren't bloody perfumed for no good reason*.

Toilet paper is definitely one of the most egregious offenders, but top of my personal peeve list is plastic rubbish bags. WTF thinks that everyone wants these things with a fake 'citrus-y' scent???

*rage*

I can't even imagine how it is for people who do have allergies or medical issues with this sort of lunacy.

*sympathies*