(My elderly aunt still lives like it is the 1940s or 1950s. She doesn’t understand how the world today operates and still thinks that what worked then works now. My younger sister just announced that she is pregnant with her second child, and the following exchange occurs when I tell my aunt why I don’t have children.)

Aunt: “What’s the matter with you? Why can’t you have a baby? Your sister is five years younger than you and is pregnant with her second already!”

Me: “[Aunt], you know that [Husband] had damage to his male parts while he was deployed to Afghanistan. The VA says that he is sterile.”

Aunt: “You—“ *referring to me* “—should take two tablespoons of Mrs. Tinsley’s Tonic every night before bedtime. My mother said that if you take two tablespoons of Mrs. Tinsley’s Tonic every night before bedtime, you are guaranteed to get pregnant!”

Me: “Uh, the problem is with [Husband], not me…”

Aunt: “But my mother said that Mrs. Tinsley’s Tonic is a miracle cure! She used to give it to all the women in our neighborhood to get them pregnant when they had trouble conceiving! And guess what? They all did!”

Me: “[Aunt], did you know that no one takes tonics anymore?”

Aunt: “Go to Walmart’s!” *she insists on calling Walmart, “Walmart’s”* “They have to have it! I’m sure all of your friends used Mrs. Tinsley’s Tonic to conceive their babies! Everyone takes tonics!”

Me: “Uh, no one uses tonics anymore. Vitamins and herbal supplements, yes, but tonics, no. If Mrs. Tinsley’s Tonic is such a miracle cure when was the last time you bought it?”

Aunt: “I think that I last bought it in 1956 when I conceived your cousin.”

Me: “You know that was over sixty years ago?

(My aunt just kind of froze up and finally dropped the conversation.)

(I work in a movie theater. My colleague is a short woman who is in her last trimester of her first pregnancy. Due to this combination, she cannot reach the row of ice cream tubs further away from her without crushing her baby. She is serving an elderly woman who asks for ice cream that she cannot reach.)

Colleague: “I’m sorry, I cannot reach that one because I’m pregnant.” *to me* “[My Name], could you finish this lady’s ice cream for me?”

Me: “No problem.”

(I take over and my colleague takes the payment. Not long after, the customer comes to me.)

Customer: “I just wanted to say that your colleague did not need to tell me she was pregnant. That’s disgusting!”

(I was too stunned to answer, but she seemed content with having said her piece and walked off.)

(My older sister currently works at as an ER nurse. I am woken up one Saturday morning by my cell phone ringing.)

Me: “Hello?”

Sister: “I need you to come downstairs, right now.”

(I get up and walk down to the living room to find her and my parents all watching me descend.)

Me: “What’s going on?”

Sister: “I slipped on the stairs and broke my toe.”

Me: “You need someone to drive you to the hospital?”

Sister: “NO! My coworkers and I always joke about someone coming to the ER because they stubbed their toe. I am not going to the hospital because I hurt my toe.”

Me: “So, what do you need from me?”

Sister: “I need you to reset the bone. Mom is too squeamish and Dad is too gentle. You just need to pull on it quick, like taking off a bandage.”

Me: *shrugs* “Okay.” *walks over and yanks on the crooked toe*

Sister: *gasp of pain followed by a relieved sigh* “Thank you.”

(During her next shift at work, someone commented on her slight limp. She admitted to the accident and the doctor on hand insisted on x-raying her foot. The bone in the toe was indeed broken, but perfectly realigned.)

(I have bad hips due to working too hard as a mail deliverer, meaning I had to quit my job and can only take desk jobs now. My bad hips are worst in winter, but in summer I can be lucky and have less pain. I take the tram home and it’s rush hour. A woman and I both enter the tram at the same time via different doors and reach a single empty chair. I reach it slightly before her. Since my hips are being nice to me, I decide to stand for a while and offer this seat to the sweet old lady before me.)

Me: “Feel free to take this seat, ma’am.”

Lady: “You’d better! I was here first!”

Me: *ticked off* “Well, pardon me for offering you this seat, ma’am!”

(The old lady huffs while she sits down and I take a standing spot. And what do you know, my hips start acting up and the pain slowly increases with time. Meanwhile, the old lady keeps on staring at me, giving me a stink eye. After a few stops, a seat finally empties and I can take that seat. A few stops after that, the old lady leaves, but not before stopping at my seat.)

Lady: “Well, are you sitting nicely now, at your own little seat?!”

Me: “Ma’am, this is saying more about you than it does about me.”

Lady: “Yes, it does! It says you are a rude little b****! You must be very proud of yourself!”

(She leaves the tram in a huff.)

Other Woman: “What was that all about?!”

Me: “Oh, I offered my seat to her and she told me off.”

Other Woman: “Pwah! She’s lucky she even had a chair! If she was this rude to me, I would have taken that chair and let her stand. Would’ve probably taught her some humility!”

(I have just had a minor surgery on my upper right arm. I work two different jobs: one through the week, the other only on the weekends. After the procedure, I am told that I am not allowed to lift more than ten pounds for the next two weeks in order to fully recover. This is fine, as my first job as a librarian allows me to sit at a computer and not always carry heavy objects. My second job as a cashier, however, requires me to lift 24-packs of water, 30-packs of beer, etc., because customers often place these on the belt. I let both jobs know ahead of time that I would be having surgery, and I make sure to get a note from my doctor saying I am not allowed to lift more than ten pounds. I go into my second job early to hand them the note and see if I can work at the self-check lanes for my shift which is only four hours long. There is one person who never checks because they complain that it “hurts their back” to check for a long period of time, and they happen to be working at this time.)

Me: “Hey, [Coworker #1], I had surgery the other day, and I have a doctor’s note here saying that I can’t lift more than ten pounds. I see that [Coworker #2] is on the self-check; do you think they’ll let me switch them?”

Coworker #1: “Probably not, but we can go over and ask, anyway.”

(We walk over to [Coworker #2]. I have a noticeable bandage on my right arm.)

Coworker #1: “[My Name] has a doctor’s note saying she can’t lift more than ten pounds; would it be okay if you moved over to a regular lane?”

Coworker #2: *takes a brief glance at my bandaged arm and sighs* “Well, my back’s been bothering me today and I really don’t feel like checking right now.”

Me: “But I just had surgery the other day, and I have a note that says I am not allowed to lift a certain amount; otherwise, it could tear the stitches.”

Coworker #2: “Well, I guess, but my back has been hurting…”

Me: *cuts in, slightly annoyed* “Look, I have an official doctor’s note, and I think that it’s a little more valid than you just saying that your back is hurting.”

Coworker #2: *huffs* “Fine, but if my back starts bothering me, I want to switch back.”

(They stalked away to the regular checkout lanes, and I took my place at the self-check. The entire time we worked, they apparently talked about me to our other coworkers and occasionally shot me dirty looks. They did ask what I had surgery for, as if the bandage wasn’t enough proof. Shockingly, they never did ask to switch, so I guess their back wasn’t hurting them as much as they thought!)