Win tickets to see the smash hit musical Mamma Mia at the Roanoke Civic Center. Two winners will each receive four tickets!
Saturday, March 23, 2013
My friend was filling her pill box. As we caught up on the phone the other night, I could hear the rattling and clicking of the familiar activity in the background.
A few years ago, after tiring of the daily ritual of opening multiple bottles and shaking out multiple pills, I broke down and bought my own pill box — one of the long ones with large, easy-to-read letters denoting which tiny compartment belongs to which day of the week.
It’s mostly for vitamins. Isn’t that what we all say? But in my case, it’s true.
Anyway, my friend and I chatted about the pill box — how the filling chore is annoying but the method reminds us when a prescription refill is due; how I bought a single-day pill box after breaking the lid on one of my tiny seven-day compartments, then realized a single-day box is nearly useless.
“That’s nothing,” she said. “I just turned 50 and I had to buy a bigger box. I got tired of cramming them in there and trying to force the lid shut.”
Owning a pill box carries a slightly embarrassing stigma, but it’s a necessary evil.
Maybe it isn’t the day we get bifocals that brings aging into perspective, but the day we buy the plastic box with seven tiny compartments.
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