I went to the drugstore recently to buy some allergy medication. I knew I wanted a Claritin-type drug, although I think I only knew that because on the packaging and advertising there is a wide open field that makes me want to run and play. My doctor once recommended it to me and it just stuck. I mean, combine effective marketing with endorsement by institutionalized authority figures and the other brands don't have a chance, really. Pathetic as that was a reason to limit my options, I was thankful to be able to do so, since then I only had remaining about a 4 feet by 4 feet square area of little boxes of medication to choose from.
So I started narrowing down further. Clearly I was going to get generic since the generic was sometimes close to half the price. I was also going to get the one with 10 rather than with 100 (shouldn't you need a prescription for all that medication? Or surgery? That seems like a serious problem if you ask me). Finally I was left with two boxes of Claritin-type medication from which to choose: the Redi-tab-type and the same-old, plain-old tablets.
I examined the boxes each in turn and could find no difference in effectiveness claims, dosage, anything. Yet the ones that dissolved on your tongue cost 30 percent more than the others. Confused, I took the boxes to the counter to ask the pharmacist.
"Excuse me," I called. The pharmacist couldn't have been more than 24. So this is what I could have been doing for the last five years if I had done pharmacy instead of sociology, I thought. Wow, that seems like a useful profession. I tend to have random somewhat self-deprecating thoughts such as these (they've been increasing in number of late, since I am getting ready to enter my seventh year of graduate studies).
The young lady in the white coat with her name stitched on the front had pale white skin and long brown hair, and she turned to look at me before leisurely strolling over to the counter where I stood with my two boxes of allergy medication. She looked at me with detached curiosity in her eyes and an expression that let me know she was not considering what her life would be like if she was still in graduate school.
"Yes," she slowly and seemingly without concern responded, resting her tongue on the "s" like it was a chaise lounge.
"Hi," I greeted her uselessly. "I was wondering if you could tell me why this box [I held up the Redi-tab-type Claritin-type generic allergy medication] is three dollars more than this one [I held up the same-old plain-old Claritin-type generic allergy medication]?"
"The one kind dissolves on your tongue," she responded. Seeing my blank look, she continued "you don't need water."
I marveled yet again at our culturally-shared laziness and the marketing genius of advertisers, who take advantage of it, often in the process seemingly facilitating our worst qualities.
"Well, I'll just take the regular ones," I shook my head. "I mean, you're supposed to drink water anyway, right?" I tried to make a joke and it fell flat. It was then that I realized that the time it had taken to make this decision was the exact time needed for my head to yet again become congested. I was feeling the pressure associated with needing to sneeze and knew if I sneezed now I would have a drainage-related incident that would quite possibly cause the porcelain young woman to change her facial expression. However, my head was starting to get heavy, pain was entering the picture, and pressure behind my eyes was causing them to water and burn.
She rang up my purchase and I walked quickly out to my car, on my way out replacing the more expensive Redi-tab-type Claritin-type generic allergy medication on the shelf.
As soon as I got outside, I realized that my allergies were bordering on incapacitating. I knew I had tissue in my car so I hurried to it. I opened the car door and threw my purchase on the seat next to me. I sneezed and blew my nose and reached for the allergy medication.
Then, I looked around the car, suddenly realizing that I didn't have any water.
Bastard advertisers, I muttered, as if the advertisers had tricked me into not buying water with my medication. I considered going back inside to get some water, but knowing it would be overpriced and too cold, I just gave up and drove me, my allergies, and my unopened package of allergy medication home.
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