"In Search of Condoms" by Nancy Wiltbank Johnson

In Search of Condoms

by Nancy Wiltbank Johnson

11 August 1996

Just because the word "condom" is in the title don't get your hopes up. This story is not about sex. It's about grocery stores. 

My husband and I were on vacation in Spanish Fork, Utah, which is a much bigger town than you might think. It actually has two supermarkets that are open all night. I know. I am now an expert on late night shopping in Spanish Fork, Utah. 

I walked in the The Grocery Giant at 10:30 pm in search of condoms. Before I continue, there's something I want to get straight right off. I consider myself a well-adjusted adult. Really. I'm comfortable with my sexuality. I've read Dr. Ruth. I answer my children's question about sex in a relaxed tone of voice and without blushing. Of course, I practice that in the mirror a lot. But I'll confess I have a major hang-up. I really hate buying condoms. Why? Who knows? Am I afraid people will see and then they'll know what I've been up to? I'm the mother of four, for pete's sake. Most people seeing all of my kids and my box of condoms would probably think, "I hope she's finally learning how to work one of those things."

So if I hate it so bad why was I the one stuck buying condoms? Because our marriage is a partnership. Because I take responsibility for my sexual behavior. Because I lost the coin toss. 

Because of my insecurity, I've developed a few rules. Rule number one of condom purchasing: always have a full cart. If you come up the the counter with a box of condoms and nothing else, especially at 10:30 pm, the clerk can think only one thing: "Emergency!"

With rule number one in mind, I wandered up and down the aisles picking up this and that as I looked for the condom display. After going through the store three times I was getting a little frantic. I knew they had condoms. What grocery store doesn't carry condoms?

Okay. I'd break down and ask for help. I looked for a likely candidate but all the employees were male with lots of pimples and hormones. No way was I going to ask a teenage boy where the condoms were, although I was sure they all knew. 

I kept cruising the aisles until I found someone over the age of seventeen. It was Jim, the night manager. 

"Excuse me," I said in my most well-adjusted, sexually mature voice. "Where are the condoms?" Pretty good until I giggled when I said "condoms."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. We don't sell them." Jim's voice was polite yet discreet with just the right touch of apology while maintaining a comfortable customer-employee distance that is vital in such a sensitive situation. 

"What?" I couldn't believe they didn't sell them. "Is there a law against it in Utah?" You have to buy liquor at the utah state liquor store so maybe they had a state store for...what was I even asking? I realized I was just trying to act cool by making condom small-talk. 

"No law. We've just had some trouble with shoplifters."

Shoplifting condoms. Hmm. Sounds like a great way to avoid a ton of embarrassment. But I'd never do it because I'm a well-adjusted adult who is comfortable with her sexuality. Besides, the Grocery Giant didn't carry them. 

"Could you tell me where...?" I stopped. What was I doing? More condom small-talk?

"I know they sell them at Bob's," Jim said, very businesslike. 

"Bob's?" I asked. I was not buying condom's from a place called Bob's.

"It's a gas station across the way. They're open all night." hmm. Jim had lots of condom information for a mild mannered night manager. 

After paying for my cartload of condom camouflage, I drove by Bob's to take a look. It actually looked reputable, a small reputable convenience store owned by an unimaginative person named Bob.

I took a deep breath and marched inside. I was confidence in motion. I was confident of myself as a woman, as a customer, as a consumer of condoms. Didn't I just make condom small-talk with Jim over at the Grocery Giant? Didn't my wallet hold all the power these bozos cared about anyway?

I saw Bob behind the counter and faltered. Bob had the exact same bald spot with the hair combed over it as my dad. I couldn't buy condoms from my dad. 

"May I help you, Miss?" Bob asked in Dad's booming voice. There were five other people in the store so I went up to the counter and quietly asked, "Where are the condoms?" 

"Condoms?" Bob boomed and all the heads turned. They couldn't help it. It is impossible to say the word condom without catching every person's attention. Try it at a party sometime. "Are you sure you're old enough?" Bob chuckled and before I could invent a scathing comeback he said, "Condoms are on aisle four right next to the Preparation H."

On aisle four I found a Slam-bam-thank-you-Ma'am-One-Night-Stand pocket pack. Inside were two condoms. Conveniently displayed through the cellophane, that looked to be the same shape and durability as water balloons. I was going to buy them but then I thought, "What if we need more later? I'll have to come back and then Bob would know exactly how many times we..." I picked up the pack and brought it up to Bob. Excused me, Dad, er, Bob. This was all I could find. Do you happen to have a monogamous value sized package?

"No," Bob replied louder than ever, "But in the back I got the Don Juan Variety Grab Bag." I left the condom package on the counter and backed towards the door, smiling politely as he continued. "It has twelve condoms - all different. You got your different colors, sizes, textures, scents..." As I slipped out the door I heard him call, "There's even some that glow in the dark." I've never looked at my dad the same since. 

As I drove through the town I decided to forget the whole thing. Keith could buy them himself in the morning. He's the one that wears them. Suddenly, a big blue sign shown like a beacon of hope: Smart Mart's Grocery and Pharmacy. Inside Smart Mart's I headed straight for the pharmacy. There I picked up a box. It was our regular brand, normal size, shape, and color. And they didn't glow in the dark. 

Walking to the check stand I suddenly remembered rule number one: never buy condoms without a full cart. I was tired. I was battle weary. I was confused after all the condom small talk. But old habits die hard so I grabbed a bag of chips on the way to the counter. 

Too late I realized I had become a victim of one of the most unfortunate choices of brand names in potato chip history. After my purchases were rung up, the clerk tried to keep a straight face while I paid for one box of condoms and a giant bag of Lays.