More adventures in Duane Reade

My neighborhood Duane Reade is a lot of things; expensive, poorly stocked, incompetently managed. One thing it isn't is boring.

I got up at the crack of dawn on Sunday (9:30am) and trekked over to pick up some kitty litter. First of all, if you walk around my neighborhood before noon on a Saturday or Sunday, all you will encounter is crazy people. I walked past the singing man and the woman yelling at herself to grab the litter and got in the long line behind the people rocking and praying and twitching and whatnot. Because there's never more than one register open, and Duane Reade was full of crazies on line.

As I sipped my Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee and waited for the tragically slow cashier to ring everyone up (He's new, and seriously? Slow motion. I want to grab a remote and fast-forward him) when the Biggest Style Nightmare Ever walked into Duane Reade.

Her outfit was Britney-esque, even though she was at least 35 (and that's being generous). I'm not talking stage Britney, I'm talking Cheetos-eating-drinking-airplane-bottles-of-whisky-in-front-of-a-liquor- store-going-barefoot-in-public-restrooms-chain-smoking-Britney. Yeah, that bad. The most horrifying thing was how low her jeans were. Very low. And maybe this woman had shaved or waxed at some point, but she clearly needed a touch-up. There was seriously at least One. Inch. Of. Pube. Stubble. Hanging. Out. Over. The. Top. Of. Her. Jeans. I mean, not that anyone really thought she was a natural blond, but come on.

So offensive was this woman's exposed stubble that the crazy people in line each stopped doing their crazy motion of choice and stared. I stared. We all stared at this woman and her unkempt exposed pubes. I've been getting flashbacks for days, and I shudder every time. I've been lamenting the comeback of the high-waisted jean, but now I might have to reconsider.