I just got back from the pharmacy, where I picked up Monistat for Amy.
Complete with a pharmaceutical consultation1 on which formula would be best for her.
In a crowded pharmacy. (Is this where America hangs out on Friday nights?)
With big, burly men standing directly behind me, waiting for their prescriptions. And, most likely, guffawing into their hands.
How did I get through this? By utilizing the spousal equivalent of imagining your audience naked when battling stagefright: I kept declaring to myself: Think what you want, assholes, but I'll bet a paycheck that I'm getting better blowjobs from the recipient of this medication than you'll ever dream of.
The downside for you, of course, is that it'll likely be several days before you get to read about more indisputably intoxicating accounts of our matrimonial copulation.
(And yes, I realize that actually blogging about my "act of heroism" draws so much self-congratulatory attention that my chance at sainthood is soiled. You know what? It was worth it.)
1 There was this classic moment, after the male pharmacist fumblingly handed me off to the female pharmacist, when she locked eyes on me while holding one box and said with rapt intensity: "As a woman ... this is what she wants." Later, Amy suggested: "You should have asked her: 'But what would you recommend as a man?' "