Last week in this space, I mentioned being something of a libertarian. Breaking down my feelings to an all-encompassing, declarative sentence might be difficult, but it I had to, it might be this:

Just leave me alone, and I’ll leave you alone.

I’m not exactly antisocial, but public speaking, working a room and meeting new people on the fly have never been my strengths. I try, but my efforts usually come off as awkward and leave people thinking I’m either shy, standoffish or stuck up. Or all three.

Example: I once found myself waiting for a friend to return home and was seated across from his elderly, British-born maternal grandmother in his parents’ living room. Later, I learned that she wanted to know, “Who was that surly little bugger?”

It helps if you read that question in a cockney accent.

Of course, I didn’t think I was surly nor a little bugger. And what, exactly, is a “little bugger” anyway?

All that brings me to this:

It is becoming increasingly more difficult to be a private person or even keep a bit of a low profile. I envy people who somehow make their way through life without leaving much of a footprint. It’s easier to do if you treat social media the way a vampire treats a crucifix or garlic. But as slightly anti-social as I am, I’m on Facebook and Twitter. (I tried calling it X, but my people didn’t seem to know what I was talking about, so it’s back to Twitter.)

But it’s not just social media. If you buy anything on Amazon, you probably get notifications about products similar to something you purchased “recently.”

But it’s no better going old-school and buying stuff at a brick-and-mortar store, even if you pay with cash. They still have ways of getting your personal information and sharing it with … God only knows whom.

It bothers me knowing that my information — and yours — is made available to so many people and entities as a matter of course now.

Next time you have a cold and need an over-the-counter medication, expect to be asked for your ID, as if everyone who buys cold meds is Walter White or some lesser meth maker, mixing batches in his bathtub or in a shack in the woods.

The other day, a small bottle of some “mucus-relief” pills was among a few items I had in my cart at one of those “dollar” stores. You know the chain. (Apparently, our legislators in Columbus have mandated that no Ohioan should be able to drive more than 2.5 miles without passing one of them.)

For some reason, this store’s self-checkout station was disabled, so I had to go through the process like it was 1983 again. But guess what? It’s more like George Orwell’s “1984.”

The lady scanned the pills and said, “Can I see your ID?”

I flipped open my brand-new wallet — a post-Christmas buy because my old George Costanza wallet had become untenable and annoying — and showed her my driver’s license,

“No, I need to scan it,” she said.

“Really? I’m 58 years old,” I sighed.

What happened next was 45 seconds of me struggling to extract my license from its stiff, new sleeve.

As I walked out with my bags a few moments later, I realized it wasn’t my age they were concerned about. I have enough gray hair and wrinkles to more or less prove I can legally buy anything they sell. They actually log who buys cold medicine. Where does the information go? Somewhere in the federal government, I suppose.

I could see if I was buying 10 bottles of mucus-relief pills or going from store to store to stock up in order to make illicit drugs in my beat-up RV like some TV anti-hero character.

Is that really why we send people to Columbus and Washington “represent” us? I think not.

A couple of days later, I asked another cashier about the government encroachment against people with stuffy noses. She told me it also extends to alcoholic beverages. They don’t just look at your ID — they scan it, just like cold medicines.

OK, card me, even if I’m old to be your father or — yikes! — grandfather. But why do the feds have to know that I purchased a six-pack of Moose Drool — an actual brand — and what are they doing with that information?

The cashier also mentioned that you can’t buy more than two bottles of decongestant at a time. What if I buy two bottles of, say, Sudafed? Will the store send a signal to the feds, who will then send a crew to my house with a no-knock warrant?

The little bugger of a libertarian in me says, “Maybe so. Thanks for nothing, Patriot Act.”

Anyway, I’m probably on some kind of government list now just for asking those questions.

Ed Puskas is editor of the Tribune Chronicle and The Vindicator. Reach him at epuskas@tribtoday.com or 330-841-1786.