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You know, I wasn't even supposed to be here.

The only reason I am is because my son has an abysmal diaper rash-I've heard probiotics are helpful, so I'm hunting for a brand of yogurt he'll actually eat. Oh, and probiotic drops, of which they're out. So while I'm standing in line on my phone ordering said drops off Amazon and thinking of something else I can buy to add up to the $35 required for free shipping, I happen to glance up and see you in front of me.

You're wearing skinny jeans and makeup, which I concede as a sign we're on different planets.

Here on Planet Mom, I'm modeling a pair of leggings covered with drool, peanut butter, and stray dog hair. They might be flattering if it weren't for the fact that my panty line is clearly visible, a not-so-discreet proclamation of my preference for comfortable, if voluminous, underwear.

In my haste to leave the house, I didn't even put on a bra, which is why my jacket is zipped up to my neck despite the heat. If you listen closely, you'll hear my hair follicles begging for a trim, but their desperate pleas are muted by layers of dry shampoo.

I break the unspoken Shoppers Code of Conduct and sneak a glance into your cart. I'm hit by a pang of nostalgia for the days when I could leisurely shop for organic black bean dip, pita chips, and a bottle of merlot. For when a trip to the store wasn't some last-minute dash to nab diapers or an hour-long ordeal accompanied by a toddler.

"Hey sweetie, we're out of kefir, so I grabbed more. Oh! Excuse me."

A man in a business suit squeezes between my cart and the inside of the checkout lane without so much as grazing a sleeve of my (sweat-filled) jacket. He's holding a Pepto-Bismol colored bottle triumphantly over his head. As he turns back to place it in your cart, a grim realization hits.

F-word.

I know him.

We went on a date in 2011. We met on Match. I don't even remember his name. It was only after I reluctantly agreed to go back to his place that he sheepishly admitted his penchant for certain erotic practices-in his case, spanking. Apparently lacking the right accessory to fulfill his vision, he came up with the idea of using-you'll never guess- a vacuum cleaner attachment. Skeeved out, I demurred, made up the most transparent excuse in the world, and left. Needless to say, the evening . . . sucked.

Six years later and he's in front of me in line. Buying kefir.

Who drinks kefir??

Fortunately he doesn't recognize me. Being on Planet Mom has that effect.

You step up to the cashier, who begins scanning your items. He's a sweet-faced kid with a smattering of acne across his cheeks. To break up the monotony of his task, he asks the same question to each customer.

"Who's your favorite president?"

"Oooh, that's a tough one." Bissell Bloke replies noncommittally. "Maybe Jackson."

It's my turn. We're at that awkward impasse where you haven't taken your things off the belt but the cashier has started scanning mine. Five different brands of children's yogurt collide with your pita chips.

Oblivious to the train wreck happening, cashier boy turns to me.

"And you? Who's your favorite president?"

You and Dyson Dude finish double bagging your precious kefir and glance back. I think I see just the tiniest glimmer of recognition in his face.

Undeterred, I reach for my wallet.

"Herbert Hoover, actually."

-Emily Solberg

Emily Solberg is a writer and soon-to-be mom of two under two based in Washington, DC. When she's not waddling around after her one-year-old, she's binge-watching episodes of The Crown or freelancing about the trials and travails of motherhood. You can read her work on popular sites like Her View From Home, Military.com's SpouseBUZZ, BLUNTmoms, and Pregnant Chicken.