I was a grad student doing homework in the library. It’s not uncommon for students to ask other nearby students to keep an eye on their things if they have to briefly step away for things like using the restroom or going to fetch a book. 

As I was working, I noticed a fellow student waving to get my attention, and it sounded like she asked me to watch her laptop for four or five minutes, but I had my headphones in so I didn’t quite catch it.

I removed my headphones.

Me: “Sorry! What was that?”

Student: “I said, can you watch my stuff for forty-five minutes?”

Me: “Did you say forty-five?”

Student: “Yes.”

Me: “No, I’m sorry.”

She sighed in frustration, packed her things, and left. If it had been for a few minutes, I would have agreed, but I didn’t know how much longer I’d be there working, and I didn’t want to be responsible for someone else’s computer and bags for such a long time. I left twenty or thirty minutes later and she had not returned.

My aunt (we’ll call her Jane) was dating a man (we’ll call him John) who was twenty-two years older than she was, and he eventually became her second husband. He pulled this gag on her at a store’s checkout.

As they approached the cashier’s station, John hung back, so it wasn’t obvious that they were together. Jane didn’t think anything of it and started placing her items on the belt. Just as she finished, John walked up and put a pack of gum on the belt. The cashier looked at my aunt, who said, “Go ahead.”

The cashier finished ringing her out and announced the total.

John: “I’ll get this.”

Jane: “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

John: “I insist; it’s the least I can do.”

Jane: “Well, okay.”

He hands the cashier money and gets his change, and then…

John: “Now that I’ve paid for your purchase, will you tell me your name?”

Jane: “JOHN!”

This is the story of how my dad failed driver’s education because of his siblings.

My dad’s oldest sister was the first member of his family to take driver’s education in high school. She needed glasses but wasn’t aware that she needed them at the time. Due to her nearsightedness, she managed to drive the driver’s ed vehicle, with the screaming instructor and three other kids inside, off of a pier and into a lake.

After that, the school bought a car with a passenger brake system for the instructor to use.

My dad’s youngest sister went next. During her class, the instructor (the same man) walked in front of the car while his sister was getting out. She accidentally failed to turn off the car and stepped out. Driverless, with power still being applied to the wheels, the car slammed the teacher against the wall of the school, trapping him.

It took nearly an hour to get him free. The school instituted new procedures so that, should something like this happen in the future, it would get fixed faster.

Then, it was my dad’s turn. Same driver’s ed instructor. The instructor was calling roll. When he reached my dad’s name, he visibly blanched. He never let my dad actually drive, and at the end of the class, he marked my dad as failing.

Dad’s dad was on the school board. He learned that my dad had failed driver’s ed and demanded to know why; no accidents had been reported from my dad. 

Long story short, the next year, the school had a new driver’s ed instructor. The old one won some sort of settlement or compensation for psychological harm during his time at work, and the school paid for my dad to retake private driver’s education with an off-site facility.

My dad’s little brother went on to be the first in the family to pass driver’s education on the first try, and he eventually became an automotive engineer.

When we are still dating, my husband gets tickets to the local NFL team game. Like all arenas and public venues, the seats are mashed in to make room for as many people as possible. 

During the first half of the game, the man beside me constantly has his leg against mine or elbows me in the breast every time he moves. In a typical male fashion, my husband doesn’t notice and brushes it off.

Husband: “It’s just because it’s close quarters.”

During halftime, I express my frustration with Mr. Gropey next to me and I swap seats with my husband. Within moments, he has a thigh against his and an elbow to his chest.

Well, it seems that gets Mr. Gropey’s attention; apparently, it isn’t as soft as it used to be. When he looks over and sees a beefier man smiling and waving at him where there was a woman before, he suddenly finds a lot more space on the other side of his seat.

Husband: “Huh. You weren’t kidding about him constantly trying to feel you up.”

Me: “Welcome to the life of a woman.”

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I’d worked in this job at a popular sandwich shop for four years and I’ve been contemplating moving on. I don’t find the motivation to do so until the day this story occurs.

We tend to run short-staffed because the general manager is forced to conserve labor, and if a single person calls off, the whole day is thrown off and everyone runs around in a panic trying to get everything done. It’s very stressful and a bad environment for anyone with anxiety, like me.

One day, one of the drivers calls in sick several hours before his shift. This driver is one of the most responsible people I know. In two years working there, he has put in a single time-off request for getting his wisdom teeth taken out, and he put it in months in advance. He never calls in sick, and on the day in question, he is actively throwing up and literally cannot safely come in. I overhear the general manager explaining to the area manager what’s going on.

General Manager: “We’re short-staffed; [Driver] called in sick.”

Area Manager: “What, did his mangina explode?!”

I stopped in my tracks and fixed him with my most ferocious glare. He didn’t notice, so I quickly looked “mangina” up, and basically, he was calling the driver a wimp by comparing him to a woman.

I was furious because one, being a woman is not an insult, and two, how can you say that about someone who has such a track record of responsibility? While fuming, I recalled every sexist, racist, and downright rude thing the area manager had ever said, and I decided that was it.

I walked into the back, pulled out a piece of blank printer paper, drew a little doodle of a fox on it, and wrote, “This is a picture of a fox. This is also my two weeks notice. Love, [My Nickname].” And I left it on the desk for the general manager to find.

True to my word, I finished out my two weeks and found a much better job, with better pay and a healthier work environment. I’m still friends with lots of my former coworkers, including the driver, and they’ve told me that the area manager is still confused about why what he said made me quit. I’m sure someone will have the patience to explain it to him eventually.