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I’m not sure who designs drug packaging, but I do know I’d like to have a chat with them. They must be the healthiest beings on earth because they’ve obviously never had to access medication.

I recently changed pharmacies. I opted for a small, local pharmacy, which I love.

There have been some adjustments. By the second visit, they knew me when I went in. While initially a little startling, I realized I liked this. My previous place had had so many screw-ups over the past few years I dreaded any contact at all. I had to adjust to them being closed on Sundays. I had to adjust to prices being lower.

Most importantly, I had to accept that they used a different kind of pill container.

I now have to line up two arrows, instead of the push-and-turn. No big deal, you’re thinking. Except. Sometimes I have to take a pill at night. I can’t see anything without my glasses on, and I can’t see anything in the dark. If I put on a light, I’ll be up for the rest of the night because sleep is for people who made some magic deal with the devil. If I could go back in time, I would make the same deal. Alas, I chose knowing how to fold a fitted sheet, a skill that pales in comparison.

So on goes the light as I squint to see two arrows. I know it could be worse. A migraine med changed packaging some years back. Instead of just popping out a pill through a little foil backing, you now had to peel back one paper layer to access the inner one. It was like some Russian doll was holding my pill hostage. Again, I’d like to have a word.

I’m old enough to remember when the tamper-proof packaging started in the 1980s, and I’m actually grateful for it. I watch people in grocery stores eat grapes and stick their hands in bulk bins and touch every single apple before deciding, nah, not today. When you see frozen items discarded in the cracker aisle, you are reminded we live among heathens.

I’m also old enough to remember when Mrs. Dods who lived next door used to have to call us to open her pill bottles for her because she couldn’t. I also know both my sons could open a childproof container by the time they were four. If a kid can escape from a car seat, you better believe they can get to your Lipitor.

I have stabbed myself trying to cut through the NASA barrier held on by superglue that some companies reward you with for being able to even get the cap off. I have stared at a blob of cotton that my father used to insist we could reuse. I ditch it, hearing his voice in my head the whole time. He’s been dead for 25 years.

Some helpfully give you a tab you can pull up. I usually pull it right off. For someone who has had magical medical maladies my entire life, you’d think I’d be better at this. I’ve left the lids askew, and I’ve put a pill on the night table just in case. Without fail, this is when the cats decide the room is a blender, and I end up under the bed in the middle of the night trying to locate pills in case a cat eats one and dies.

Everything seems direr in the middle of the night when you can’t see and can’t sleep. I don’t know why I worry, my cats won’t eat unless it’s the perfect food in the right bowl at the precise time.

Maybe I’ll just get a Pez dispenser.

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