While at university in the 1990s, I am flat-sharing with a couple of other chaps. I am studying in my room and can hear the sound of rhythmic chopping from the kitchen. The sound stops, shortly followed by a cry of pain. I dash to the kitchen with the thought that my flatmate has done himself a mischief with the knife. I arrived to see my flatmate with a weeping eye.

Me: “Are you okay?”

Flatmate: “I was cutting some chilis and rubbed my eye! F***, it hurts!”

Me: *Suppressing laughter* “You numpty. I’ve got some hayfever eye drops in the bathroom cabinet. They might take the sting out of it.”

A couple of minutes later, there is a scream from the bathroom. I make my way to the bathroom and knock on the door.

Flatmate: “F***, f***, f***…”

Me: “You all right in there, mate?”

Flatmate: *Pained* “No. I decided to use the toilet while I was in here…”

Me: “And you didn’t think to wash the chilis off your hands first?”

Flatmate: *Still pained* “No.”

Me: “I’ve heard milk is supposed to take the heat out of it. Shall I get you glass to dip into?”

His reply would have made a sailor blush. He eventually left the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, holding it away from his crotch. For the rest of the day, I couldn’t look at him without giggling.

I work with a guy who completes triathlons. I don’t mind him going on about it; I feign interest to be polite. But his attitude toward diet and food really grates on me. On the rare occasion that I have fast food for lunch, he always makes snarky comments about the calories. If I am feeling sick or hungover, he barks on about how much sugar is in my sports drink. If anyone brings in cakes for birthdays, he goes on about how bad cakes are and how he isn’t going to have one.

I have had problems with my weight in the past. I went from overweight to muscular, but it is still a bit of a sore subject for me. I am a little fed up with his comments but keep quiet throughout. 

After Christmas, we are all back talking about what we did over the break. [Coworker] isn’t part of the conversation, surprisingly.

Me: “It was great, although I did indulge a bit too much. My wife bought me a really nice bottle of whisky and we all ate way too much.”

Coworker: *Condescendingly* “Well, the only thing bad I ate was three chocolate buttons. Over the whole break!”

One of my coworkers shoots me a glance, and without thinking, I blurt out:

Me: “Wow, I bet your family was so happy with you judging them for what they eat over Christmas. Such a fun guy to be around.”

A couple of the guys broke out in stifled laughter. I felt a bit bad, but it did feel good to finally put him in his place. [Coworker] finally got the fact that we didn’t want our diets analysed at work and stopped the comments.

Me: “Can I have your rewards phone number?”

The customer bends down with her face almost touching the counter and whispers her phone number.

Me: “Could you please repeat it?”

Customer: *Yells* “What are you, deaf?!”

I look at her for a second and reach up to flip my hearing aid out from behind my ear.

Me: “Yes, I am.”

She just looked at me. I don’t think she was expecting that!

CONTENT WARNING: Major Injury

I am accident-prone. I mean, REALLY accident-prone. I have broken most of the bones in my body at least once — some, in the case of my nose and fingers, multiple times. I have screws and plates all through my body. There’s nothing wrong with my bones, either, if you need further proof of what a disaster magnet I am.

In the highlights of my list of “big injuries”:

I was hit by a drunk driver and dragged two blocks when I was eight years old. It took me months to learn how to walk again. I fell down a set of stairs in high school and broke both my legs. I was ADJACENT to a car crash as a pedestrian and had all my ribs broken by a flying tyre. I was attacked by a pack of dogs when I was a toddler that somehow got past two locked six-foot gates. I was the only one injured when my first workplace burned down, despite being one of the first out the door. I was standing in the evacuation area with thirteen other people when the gas canister exploded, and guess who was the only person hit with glass and shrapnel? Me.

I am not exaggerating the disaster magnet thing. My husband is well versed in emergency rooms and surgery waiting areas.

I start working at a fast food place. My husband waits for the inevitable call that I have been horrifically burned by the fryer or somehow run over in the drive-thru.

One night, I’m working overnight. My husband is peacefully sleeping when he gets a call from my manager. He groggily answers the phone.

Husband: “Hello?”

Manager: “Hey, man. Um, [My Name] has just left here in an ambulance. She asked me to ask you to meet her at the hospital and bring her emergency bag?”

My husband gets out of bed and starts to grab my always packed emergency bag.

Husband: “Yep, on it, mate. Hey, what happened?”

Manager: “She, uh… She broke her hip.”

Husband: *Pause* “I gotta say, out of everything I expected, that wasn’t it.”

Yep. I had slipped on a puddle of grease and slid the exact wrong way with my leg twisted. It had dislocated, and then I landed on it full force and rolled. After surgery and rehab, I was okay, but my husband LOVES to tell people I broke my hip flipping burgers.

In the office kitchen, bright and early, I am pouring myself a mug of coffee. There are three others in the kitchen with me.

Coworker #1: “I smell lavender. Do you?”

All agree but me as I put the pot back on the warming plate.

Coworker #1: “Do you smell it?”

The question is now directed at me and I turn, shrugging.

Me: “I don’t know. I can’t smell.”

Coworker #2: “What?!”

Me: “Yeah. I’ve never had taste or smell my whole life.”

I move to leave but [Coworker #2] shrieks.

Coworker #2: “YOU CAN’T TASTE?”

Me: “Nope. I’ve never tasted anything ever.”

Coworker #2: “You could have [rapidly spreading illness]!”

Me: *Pause* “No. I’ve never had the sense. I didn’t lose it. I don’t have [illness].”

Coworker #2: “You’re hiding symptoms.”

Me: “Wait. What? No.”

[Coworker #2] staggered away from me in fear (everyone was wearing a mask in the kitchen and in the workplace) and disappeared down the hall. Within minutes, an [illness] trace was started by our Compliance Officer until the other coworkers who’d heard the kitchen conversation quickly stepped in to tell about what had happened and about my disability.

It took a bit for the hysteria to die down and gossip flew around the office for days afterward. [Coworker #2] avoided me to protect herself from [illness] and I just did my best to keep working.

The lavender turned out to be a box of cupcakes, hidden for an afternoon birthday celebration.