We're Not That Close

* Quick note: this one's not for you Mom and Dad. And it's not because we're not close; it's just not for you.

The only thing I dislike more than overly chatty customer service is overly intimate customer service. Despite the fact that a whole lot of my life is on the Internet, I believe in boundaries, and I like them.

Back when you still had film developed, I can remember picking up some pictures from the one-hour photo. As I was pulling out my wallet to pay, the lab tech said, “Thanks for your business. It looks like you had a great vacation.”

I didn’t like that. You may think I’m rude, but I want there to be a wall between me and the people that help me in a business or commercial way. (Unless you’re my hair dresser. I’m not a complete freak.) We are not friends. We don’t share. There is no intimacy between us. I want to be another nameless, faceless customer in the crowd. Being recognized or having someone remember my dog’s name and favorite color isn’t a plus in my book.

Honestly, I find it downright creepy.

A few weeks ago at the bank, as I was depositing checks, the teller struck up a conversation with me. “So,” she said, “what do you do at the college?” (One of my checks was from a university.)

Despite the fact that I felt this was a little intrusive, I answered. “I teach,” I said.

“What do you teach?”

Yes, I can be paranoid, and I think way too much about stalking because of my love of procedural crime dramas, but even without those factors, I still don’t think I’d like these kinds of questions. It’s not like I was wearing a college t-shirt, something that would be visible to the world. The name of a college was on a check I was putting into the bank – a confidential matter in my opinion, just like having personal photos developed.

Want to know about my shoes, watch, hat or the book I’m reading? Fine. Those are items I display to the world. They are public. My bank deposits, photos, prescriptions and superstore purchases are not.

I stopped going to a particular Walgreen’s in Nashville because the pharmacist said, “So, have you gained weight or lost weight?” as I was checking out.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Have you gained weight or lost weight?” As if this really was his business. “It tends to go either way with this particular medication.” I also could have sworn he started to eye my waistline when I didn’t answer.

“Uh-huh,” I said. Then I took my purchase and left without answering. As far as I’m concerned, if you don’t have an M.D. behind your name, you don’t get to ask about my meds or my weight.

But, the worst of the worsts occurred at Target a few years ago.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was on my monthly run through Target. As usual, I spent far more money than I should have. When the cashier told me the total, my face must have registered some sort of distress.

“Is everything OK?” she said.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I answered. “I just spent more than I should have. Again.”

“Well,” she said, “I don’t think he’ll mind too much because you picked up the you know.” Then she eyed one of my bags.

“He?” I said.

“Your husband,” she said. Now, as we all know, I don’t have a husband. I have a fake husband when it comes to high-pressure sales people and credit card offers, but no actual husband. I also don’t wear any rings.

“My husband,” I said, mulling it over. “And the ‘you know’?”

“I think he’ll forgive you this time,” she said and eyed one of my bags again. It was then that I finally remembered that I might have gone down the "family planning" aisle during my shopping spree. (Not for me, of course, because I am an innocent angel oh parents who might have read this post despite the upfront warning not to do so.)

I felt violated. It was a terrible reminder that what we all trick ourselves into believing – that the people we encounter out in the world are just doing their jobs and certainly don’t have time to notice our measly (and embarrassing) individual purchases like tampons, various creams or books on less-than-mainstream topics -- never happens.

It is this long-standing denial that allows me to pass through the Wal-Mart with some form of my dignity intact.

But, that's all it is -- denial and lies. Or, at least, some people are paying a lot more attention than others. These days, I look for bloodshot eyes and a seeming inability to recognize reality when I shop. I’d take a good hangover or even an oxycontin problem over keen observational skills any day. I may not always get correct change, but at least I can pretend I have some privacy.