Forgiven.

(If you are here for ICLW, welcome, and please check out my little introduction here! And if you are not here specifically for ICLW, well, I would love for you to comment anyway.)

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There's a cute young guy who works at a small supermarket in my neighborhood whom I jokingly call my supermarket boyfriend. He's always given me those kind of puppy-dog-eyed looks and little smiles that are not only amusing but also, I'll admit, rather flattering to a comparatively old lady like myself. I must have at least ten good years on him.

I made things worse one day by asking him, using a rather casual expression, how he was doing. To an American, that would not seem like something that could ramp a boyish crush up a few notches, but in Switzerland, where everything is very formal, unless there is an established relationship between the people speaking, one does not ask how the other is – in stark comparison to the typical "How's your day going?" you might hear asked and answered in great detail between cashier and customer at an American supermarket.

I knew I'd made a mistake when I saw his eyes light up above a huge smile after I asked my question. "I'm very well," he told me. "And how are you?" And it went from there. The puppy-dog looks became longer and more longing each time I saw him. A Swiss girlfriend giggled when I asked her if I'd made a mistake. "Yep, he totally thought you were hitting on him. Watch out."

When I realized that the probable missed miscarriage was indeed becoming an actual miscarriage, I stopped by the supermarket to pick up some pads. I had heard the horror stories about how much blood and guts could be involved, so I wanted to be prepared by buying the thickest, strongest, most diaper-like available (although as it turned out, I didn't really need to worry).

Just my luck, my supermarket boyfriend was unstocking a big box of something onto the shelves in the personal products aisle. Right next to the pads. As in, just about right in front of them. I didn't, couldn't, care. I crouched down next to him in my miscarriage-induced state of bedheaded, unshowered, sweatpanted shame and started examining the selection.

Either things have changed since the last time I used pads, which was in junior high, or the rating system is different here, because there was no simple low-medium-heavy distinction between the varieties. Instead, they were all rated on an eight-drop scale of absorption. After rummaging around a bit looking for the eight-droppers, apparently not available, I went with the highest I could find, five-and-a-half drops (how's that for precision?). As I stood up, I saw the look of horror on his face. He refused to meet my eyes.

I had lost my supermarket boyfriend.

I've been back many times since and he hasn't really acknowledged me. Until a couple of days ago. "Hello," he said, fixing me with those puppy-dog eyes I remember so well from my carefree pre-miscarriage, pre-five-and-a-half-drop-absorption-pad-buying days. "How are you?"

I'm forgiven.

"I'm good. And how are you?"

Bloggie friends, have you had a supermarket boyfriend (or one of a similar sort)? Or made a majorly ill-timed purchase of mega-maxi-pads?