I get a student job filling shelves in the morning. Normally, I’m done before we open, but sometimes, I have to stay a bit longer and people come up to me with questions. I’m just filling in the aisle containing everything from flour to canned goods. It is March 2020, so due to panic buying, we often run out of some items.

Customer: “Where’s the flour?”

Me: *Checking around* “The normal one is sold out. We still have this organic flour on the shelf above. I can go check in the back, though.”

The customer just… stares at me, so I take that as a yes and go into the back to check. Flour is one of the goods that’s gone frequently and we have no idea when it gets delivered next time.

Me: “I’m sorry, but the regular flour is sold out. You can get this one, instead.”

I point to the flour on the top shelf.

Customer: “But flour is 79 cents! It’s always here!”

Me: “That’s the other type. Unfortunately, that one sold out. This one is the only one we have right now.”

Customer: “But it’s always here!”

Me: “…”

Customer: “Why is it not 79 cents? It always is!”

The customer leaves without looking at me again.

Colleague: “At least you weren’t accused of hiding it from him like I was last week.”

We’re managing flea markets. Our “customers” are people selling stuff they no longer need, and they have to pay a fee based on the length of their market stand, while children’s stands are free. This happens while we still have the DM rather than the Euro.

Collector: “All right, that will be forty marks.”

Customer: “What?! I was told it’s ten per meter and that children are free. This should just be thirty marks!”

Collector: “Yes, that is right, and your daughter can sell her toys for free. However, your own market stand is over four metres long, so thirty is not enough.”

Customer: “Fine, here’s your money; this is robbery!” *To the daughter* “Give me ten marks; you have to chip in if you want to sell.”

Collector: “Uh, sorry, but as I said, your daughter’s table is free.”

Customer: “Mind your own d*** business!”

I overhear this at the hotel where I work.

Guest: “Yeah, I think we are going to go to the pizza restaurant tonight. We have not had Spanish food yet this trip.”

Due to an ongoing sickness, I miss more than half of the whole year’s PE classes. While I am obviously excused and not written down for skipping class or anything, my teacher still pulls me aside a few weeks before we get our final marks.

Teacher: “Listen. With the little time you’ve been in class, I can’t properly grade you. The school requires a certain amount of participation in class, and we don’t have homework or exams to get points in PE, either, so right now you’re at about 20%. That’s a failing grade.”

Me: “Uh, okay. Is there any other way I can make up points for missing class?”

Teacher: “I really can’t think of anything sensible. All I can do is give you a topic to write a paper on, and enter it as participation into the system.”

Me: “I can do that; I like writing papers. What topic?”

Teacher: “Uh, volleyball.”

Me: “Just… volleyball?”

Teacher: “Yeah.”

Me: “Like, the history of it? Professional volleyball? What?”

Teacher: “Just volleyball.”

Me: “You mean how to play?”

Teacher: “Yes, sure, let’s do that.”

I wrote a five-page paper about How To Play Volleyball, which meant I basically copy-pasted the rules of volleyball and drew some diagrams of the field and player positions. My teacher loved it and actually used it as a guideline in future classes doing volleyball.

The year after, I missed most of PE again because of my sickness, and I was given yet another topic to do a paper on — basketball this time. Rinse and repeat for my entire high school career. No one at the school ever thought about maybe excusing me from PE entirely, since it was a required class and there was no option for me to have any other class as a replacement.

I ended up graduating with a rather mediocre but acceptable grade in PE, having barely done any sports at all. I kind of feel like the school’s grading system never considered how to actually grade physical classes.

My mother and I went shopping one day when I was sixteen. I’ve been cursed with really large breasts; it looks odd as they don’t fit the rest of my body and they give me back pain, so there’s really nothing good about them. I decided to finally get professionally measured to find the correct size.

Up to this day, I was wearing an 80B. When the lady was done measuring and gave me a bra to try on, I was completely stunned. 

Before, I always had to hold my chest when I went down the stairs or when I bent over to make sure nothing fell out. With this bra, I could even jump and everything stayed in place; it was an 80E and fit perfectly.

I went to my mother, who waited for me at the register, and happily told her I’d found the perfect bra. When I told her my right size, she snapped.

“Who do you think you are?” she said. “Do you think you’re better than the rest of us? I will not buy this piece of s***. Your sister has a B and so do you; don’t think you’re special!” 

Then, she dragged me out of the store. 

As I was not allowed to get a job, I had to wait two more years until I moved out to finally buy underwear that fit. 

My mother still thinks she is in the right and can’t understand why my sisters and I needed therapy after growing up with her.