Thinking out loud.

Early this morning, I phoned the local pharmacy for a refill on my birth control pills. This is not news, obviously -- I do it every month, and every month, I am informed by the automated talking voice that my prescription will be refilled, no questions asked. It's totally no big deal.

(Random aside: It is no big deal except for the fact that the tone of the automated talking voice is, like, super-condescending. Always. And particularly for something that was pre-recorded, absent of context, by some totally unaffiliated voice-over actor. I picture the woman standing in her little booth, speaking a series of key phrases into the microphone, only to have Rite Aid's director of marketing crash through the door and scream, "NO, Tammy! For the last time, I want you to bitch it up, all right? We're RITE AID, for chrissakes! These medication-gobbling plebes need to know that we're doing them a fucking favor!")

Other than that, though, refilling prescriptions is an unremarkable chore. Right? Right! But NOT TODAY. This time, I picked up my phone twenty minutes later to discover a missed call and voicemail from the pharmacist, asking me to call back right away.

Because unexpected contact from a medical professional is never a good sign, I started freaking out before I'd even finished listening to the message. Call him back right away? Why? What was going on?!

(At this point, the part of my brain that likes to entertain itself by suggesting that I abduct the disabled and call my mother-in-law a whore suddenly sprang to life and shrieked, Holy shit! They won't refill your prescription because something is horribly wrong with you! You probably have HERPES!)

Trying to ignore my irrational, screeching other self, I dialed the number and pressed "2" to speak to the pharmacist. He picked up immediately.

"Hi," I said. "I'm returning a call from you--"
ASK HIM IF YOU HAVE HERPES! my brain yelled.
"Oh, of course," said the pharmacist, who sounded pleasant and young and totally unaware of The Crazy that was threatening to bubble over on the other end of the line. "I wanted to let you know, the generic version of your pill has been temporarily taken off the market. It's a patent dispute or something."
"Oh,"I said. Inside my head, The Crazy slunk away into a corner and grumbled to itself.
He continued, "So, your copay is going to be quite a bit higher than it was."
"How much higher?" I said.
"Forty dollars."
"What?!"
"I'm sorry," he said. "I know it's kind of a lot."
"Ugh," I groaned, "that's ridiculous."
"I know, I'm sorry," he said again.
And then, with a hopeful-and-helpful lilt in his voice, he added, "Maybe you should go see your doctor this week, and ask to be put on something with an available generic?"

"I could do that..."
I was thinking out loud now, weighing the options while I did the math in my head. It was a thirty-dollar difference, not insubstantial, particularly on a monthly basis, and it would be so helpful to have the money, and it really might be worth it, except--
"--shit, there's no way I can get an appointment this week and then I'd have to go, like, five days without sex."


From the phone came a small, chokey sound -- the sort of thing that happens when someone is attempting to stifle a sneeze, or a laugh.

Or a scream.

At which point I realized that the biggest problem with thinking out loud is that it is, by definition, OUT LOUD.

"Oh my God," I said, also out loud. "I can't believe I said that. That was so inappropriate, I am so--"
"Heh," said the pharmacist. "That was funny."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"Uh... I'll just come pick up the pills," I said.
"See you later," he said.

And I did.

See him later, I mean. As I passed by him on my way out the door, he winked at me over the condom display.

It was actually kind of hot.