(I’m having really bad back pain so I ask my Mum to drop a hot water bottle to work for me in the hope that it will help. I go down to the canteen there to fill it up and grab some chocolate while I’m there. Another woman is making tea at the same time and she sees my hot water bottle and chocolate.)

Worker: *sympathetically* “That time of the month, huh?”

(I laugh and gesture to my stomach.)

Worker: “Wow! You get really bloated on your period. Does that not hurt?!”

Me: “Uh… I’m seven months pregnant!”

Worker: “I know they say you shouldn’t ask a woman if she’s pregnant, but I really should have copped that one, shouldn’t I? I’m so embarrassed!”

(For the next couple of weeks I seemed to pass the same woman a lot and she always jokingly pretended she didn’t notice I was pregnant. It really amused me.)

(My partner and I have a little routine. I say, “How did you get so cute?” and he says “Radioactive cute-onium!” This time, though, he has a cold.)

Me: “How’d you get so cute?”

Partner: “Um, I think it’s because of all the non-cute substances I’m expelling from my body.”

Me: “Fair. Enough.”

(I am a larger woman, between a size 12-14. I have PCOS which means it can be very hard for me to lose weight. I also exercise four to six days a week (what can I say? I have an endorphin addiction) and eat fairly healthy. I’m just fat, and the weight doesn’t come off unless I absolutely starve myself. Unfortunately, a lot of people don’t believe this, some of which are in the medical industry. Fortunately, my doctor is more than happy with my health. At the beginning of my annual physical, I notice she has gotten a new nurse. The new nurse enters the room, sees me, and stops dead in her tracks. She looks at the file she has with my blood work, and she looks at me. Back to the blood work, back to me.)

Nurse: “Are you [My Name]?”

Me: “Yes.”

(She frowns and excuses herself. Unfortunately for her, she doesn’t close the door all the way, so I can hear her talking to my doctor in the hall. She is telling the doctor she thinks my blood work has gotten mixed up because there is no way I can have the stats I have! My doctor corrects her saying I have a largely healthy body, but all the organs in my lower abdomen hate me. And that was how her nurse learned that fat people sometimes aren’t fat for lack of trying, and that sometimes our stats are just fine, thank you.)

Patron #1: “Why do you have two ice cream options?”

Me: “One is made with cow’s milk, while the other is made with coconut milk.”

Patron #1: “What’s the difference?”

Me: “One is vegan-friendly and safe for those with lactose sensitivity.”

Patron #1: “I don’t understand. Which should I get?”

Me: “I assume after the chicken you just had that you are neither vegan nor lactose intolerant, so I would suggest the ice cream made with cow’s milk.”

Patron #1: “No, I think I’m lactose intolerant.”

Me: “But your sauce was prepared with milk. Are you all right?”

Patron #1: “I think so.” *to [Patron #2]* “Am I?”

(I stare at both of them while [Patron #2] face-palms.)

Patron #2: “I think we’ll risk it.”

(I bring them their ice cream. Half an hour later I am asked to bring the bill, and [Patron #2] offers to pay with a card. I take him to the reader.)

Me: “Are you sure he’s all right? I don’t want him to get sick.”

Patron #2: “I don’t think he knows what it means, so I think it’s safe to assume he’ll be fine.”

Me: *worried* “Oh, I thought you knew each other. I shouldn’t have suggested the cow’s milk.”

Patron #2: “No, seriously. Even if he is lactose intolerant, I doubt there’s enough going on in there to make the connection. I think I’ve actually gotten dumber just spending the night with him.”

Me: “Oh, I see. Well, please let us know if there are any problems.”

Patron #2: “Sure, although I doubt I’ll see him after tonight. I don’t know if I’ll ever use Grindr again!”

Related:
Lactose Intolerance Versus Lactose Ignorance

(I have been helping a patron set up a direct debit.)

Me: “And is there anything else I can help you with today?”

Patron: “Yes, can I have a packet of first-class stamps?”

Me: “Oh, I’m afraid we don’t offer stamps, but there is a post office just down the road. Just head right as you step outside.”

(Her head does this awkward jerk and she looks around in confusion.)

Patron: “This isn’t a post office?”

Me: “No, it’s a bank.”

(She looks furious, but before she can say anything else, she collapses on the floor. I’m the closest first-aider so I go into action. The door security guard calls 999. It looks like she’s having an epileptic fit, so I try my best to work with my training. I check her handbag for an identity card, but can’t find one. The guard walks over and tells me EMTs are coming just as our manager answers the phone. He looks so confused, but he addresses us.)

Manager: “What’s her name?”

Me: “What? How is that relevant?”

Manager: “I’ve got one of the paramedics on the phone. She’s asking.”

Me: *confused* “[Patron].”

Manager: “It’s [Patron]…” *to me* “She says to put a cushion under her head and check her handbag.”

Me: “Already done. I couldn’t find anything. I don’t know if she’s epileptic.”

(He tells the paramedic.)

Manager: “Was there anything drug-related in the bag? Pills? She’s asking for a colour.”

(I grab the bag and check. There is a small, clear bag in one of the side pockets. I don’t touch it but I can see small, round tablets.)

Me: “They’re pink.”

Manager: “Pin– Oh, they’re already here.”

(Literally as he says this, the EMTs burst through the door, with the woman my manager was speaking to hanging up.)

EMT: “Sorry, once we knew it was [Patron], we knew we had to hurry.”

(I surrender her to the EMTs. After a few minutes and an IV, she comes around. She is laughing and quite jolly with them as they take her away on a gurney.)

EMT: “Thanks for the help. I’ll just need to ask some questions.”

Me: “Sure, but how did you know it was her?”

EMT: “Sweetie, I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve been called out for her. Now we just take it as standard to call ahead when we’re told it’s a middle-aged woman.”

(I really have to commend them. I can’t imagine having to deal with the same woman time and time again as she slowly destroys herself.)