The gift of shame #truestory

The pharmacist pulled open a drawer, showed me a product and asked: ‘Is this what you are looking for?’ 

My gym bag casually slung over my shoulder, I was still high on endorphins from a very rewarding workout. I don’t usually buy lubricant in a pharmacy, but it was on my mental shopping list and anyway, the pharmacy was on my way home, so why not? What could go wrong, being all high on endorphins and stuff? 

‘Is this what you are looking for?’ 

Even the briefest of glances taught me that the product she was holding up was very much not what I was looking for. But if I wanted to correct the pharmacist, I had to explain to her that the lubricant was meant for sex with a man… or use the word ‘anal’. For some reason I wasn’t able do that. Instead I nodded, said ‘yes, exactly’, paid and left the store. 

The working title for this column, by the way, was ‘How I got to own a tube of Vaginesil’.

Another possibility was ‘How to get rid of a tube of Vaginesil’, because let me tell you, that is not an easy task. After my boyfriend had laughed in my face about my shame attack, we tried to come up with a way to put the product to good use. It is not the kind of thing you can just hand to a female friend, muttering ‘I think this is more up your alley’. It can’t replace the bottle of wine you bring to a party, no matter how many times you call a drunk person ‘lubricated’. And it most definitively is not a mother’s day present.

I find it more comfortable to buy lubricant in a sex shop. The sight of all those silly toys relaxes me. And there is another reason. Sex, if done right, is slightly sleazy. Sex shops are more than slightly sleazy. So the two make a good match. Pharmacies on the other hand, with their bright lights and white labcoats, just don’t spell out sex the same way. It’s a case of cognitive dissonance waiting to happen. When visiting a sex shop, I rarely feel the need to pick up a toothbrush on my way out.

Shame can hit you anytime, anywhere. You can go days or weeks without being aware of your weak spots, and then all of a sudden they are out in the open, so glaringly the memory will stick with you for years. Large chunks of my twenties, for instance, have disappeared down the memory drain, but I can still vividly remember that time – I was 17 then – I went to see a play at Zuidpool Theater in Antwerp, mispronouncing the play’s title and the girl behind the reservations desk sniggering at me to her colleague. I had pronounced the title as if it were in French but it turned out to be English. My linguistic pride received a blow. At 40 years old, my reaction would be: ‘Considering today’s audience numbers for theater, missy, you would do well to be happy a 17-year-old wants to pay for your stuffy merchandise.’ Back then I just wanted to die. Of course I should have seen it as a gift: the scene held up a mirror to my self-esteem. It’s those moments we learn from. Ideally.

Anyway, it’s okay. I have forgiven the girl at the reservations desk. If by any chance you are reading this, Theater Zuidpool-employee back in 1994, please get in touch with me. I have a small gift for you.