We are nothing if not flippant. Our biggest post-apocalyptic fear is running out of prescription skin cream. Women have noted that dystopian novels never explore this theme. In the post-apocalyptic world, heroines scramble for their lives in the wilderness, or loot shanty towns. I, on the other hand, inhabit a comic dystopia dominated by Retin-A.
After the derecho devastated the midwest this week, we began to focus on how to fill more necessary prescription needs. Pockets of the city had power, but not our neighborhood stores. And the power companies’ philosophy seemed to be, Suburbs first.
“I can live without these for a couple of days.” Surely my body wouldn’t break down for want of a little blue pill.
How long would it take my body to break down? Feeling anxious, I unearthed a bottle of prehistoric expired anxiety pills. If I were a drug dealer, I wouldn’t make it. But after taking half a pill, though it was a placebo, I felt able to embark on a hero’s journey to fill a prescription for serious pills.
So the next day, we began our journey. The first inner-ring suburburban supermarket had no power. The next inner-ring suburb was blazing with light. Eureka! The pharmacy assistant knew nothing about power outages but ascertained the other store was closed. Then she did the necessary work so we could get the pills.
Hero’s journey: finished. It’s the little things that count. The miracle of electricity: you don’t notice till you’ve lived without it.