“Can you scan these so I can open them now?”
“Sure thing,” as she reached her arm over the conveyor belt to scan the package of Skittles in my sweaty palm.
I ripped open the package clumsily, my phone screaming out the Dexcom urgent low alarm tones. Jammed a handful of Skittles into my mouth – way too many to be chewed at once – while simultaneously and awkwardly unloading the carriage.
“Do you have a Target red card that you’ll be using today?”
” … mmmfff …”
My jaw was busy processing a dozen Skittles at a time. I took a second to hang on (hopefully casually but most likely looking like a drowning man clutching the edge of a raft) and concentrated on chewing. When I remembered, I would retrieve another item from the cart and place it on the moving track.
The lady behind me switched lanes, properly assuming I was a hot mess.
“Are you okay?” The cashier was about 20 years old and probably accustomed to a flurry of weirdos coming through her cashier line.
I finally mashed the Skittles into something I could swallow. “I’m fine. Sorry – I have diabetes and my blood sugar is really low. It happens here a lot. Target makes me low.” I was rambling and couldn’t stop. “It always makes me low.”
She nodded slowly, putting my items into a bag as I loaded them onto the conveyor belt, one every fifteen seconds or so.
She was kind. I was probably drooling colorful drool.
“You can keep eating those,” she added.
So I shoved the rest of the package into my mouth, a hypoglycemic cow chewing on taste-the-rainbow cud.