(We have a productivity seminar at work. We are being taken through some breathing exercises to relieve stress.)

Trainer: “Okay, and while focusing on your breaths, I want you to release your guiche.”

(We all look around confused, and ask if she has the right term. She says she is correct, and urges us to RELEASE THE GUICHE, with gusto.)

Colleague: “Umm, I had my guiche pierced last week, so I don’t think I can just yet.”

(The trainer blushed and we broke for lunch shortly after. The trainer never came back and all other seminars were cancelled. We all learned a little too much from [Colleague] that day.)

(We’ve gotten a new administrator at the library who believes that “change for change’s sake” is good for employees and businesses, and so has implemented several policy changes for the sake of making changes. One such change is our time-off policy. Whereas beforehand, time off was dealt with on a case-by-case basis, now the policy is that every time you’re late for work or have to take time off, whether for a sickness or vacation, you get a mark on your record, and if you get three marks in one month you can’t take any more time off for the next 90 days. About a month after this policy goes into effect, I get a phone call at work. It’s a family emergency, and since this admin is the only one in that day, I have to go to him about it.)

Me: “[Admin], my mom just called. She’s having some kind of reaction and she needs me to take her to the hospital now.”

Admin: “Why doesn’t she call an ambulance?”

Me: “She’s not having trouble breathing or anything; she’s just really worried. Plus, ambulance rides are expensive, and we live so far out that I can get home and get her to the hospital in less time than the ambulance can find us. I’ll use my paid time off; I just need to go!”

Admin: “All right. We’ll cover your shift.”

(I thank him, grab my purse, and bolt for the door… only for him to follow it up with:)

Admin: “And by the way, this is another mark on your record. One more; and you won’t be able to take any time off for three months.”

(Policy or no policy, this was just the WRONG thing to say when I was already out of my mind with worry. I got my mom to the hospital, where it turns out she has Stevens-Johnson Syndrome, from which she eventually made a full recovery. When I got back to work I brought up the incident with another admin, and by sheer coincidence the policy was dropped within a week.)

(I had a cold a couple weeks ago and was endlessly relieved when I managed to not to pass it to my boyfriend, but he has managed to catch a different one from one of his coworkers. I’m at work the day after Christmas, a Monday when most people including my partner are off, and commiserating with my “work wife.” He is a man and I am a woman.)

Me: “There’s one advantage to being at work today. [Boyfriend] is definitely sick. At least I don’t have to be home listening to him complain about it.”

Coworker: “Silver lining!”

Me: “Yeah. I mean, you know I love him, but I love him a little less when he’s sick. He’s horrible.”

Coworker: “Whiny?”

Me: “Definitely not stoic at all.”

Coworker: “Well, of course not, sweetie. He’s a guy.” *laughs* “We’re all like that.”

(He’s the first one I’ve met who admits it!)

(When I transfer to a private school in fourth grade, I go from being an average-sized girl to being the tallest kid in my class. Despite being taller than most of the student body, I am very shy. My “early” growth spurt continues for a few years before the other kids catch up with me. In fifth grade, I realize certain areas of my body are starting to develop, and I speak to my mom about it. We decide to go bra shopping that month, as soon as she can clear her schedule. One school day morning while in chapel, my fifth grade teacher asks me to sit next to her.)

Teacher: *during a hymn, quietly* “Do you wear bras now, [My Name]?”

Me: “No?”

Teacher: “You should think about it.”

(I don’t say anything to my parents about this. My mom and I go shopping and buy some bras. I find them a little uncomfortable, so while I wear them some days, other days I go without them. After a few days of this, my teacher tells me I’ve been summoned to meet with the headmistress. In the privacy of her office, the headmistress then proceeds to have a heart-to-heart with me about adolescence and bodily changes and asks if I am getting the proper access to the clothing I need. The whole conversation makes me uncomfortable, but ten-year-old me doesn’t know how to express this. I reassure her that I have bras now and that I am just trying to adjust to wearing them and there is nothing to worry about. I just want the conversation to end. After a while, I get used to the bras and start wearing them every day. One day, my class is re-entering our classroom after recess. My teacher is standing next to the door, watching everyone walking into the room. She glances down at my chest.)

Teacher: “Good job, [My Name].”

(I stiffened, uncomfortable all over again. At home, I finally told my mom everything. She wrote a letter to my teacher asking her to stop, and I gave the letter to my teacher the next day. I never heard anything about the matter from her or my headmistress again. Looking back on it years later, I am sure my teacher and headmistress were convinced my parents were not doing their jobs as parents properly and that they needed to step in and be the parents. But the way they did seems inappropriate now, just like it did then.)

(During a multiple-day family reunion, we go to the swimming pool. A few days earlier I seriously sprained my ankle, and the day before I was on crutches, and I still have a large brace on my ankle. I am also menstruating and have a tampon in. Luckily, the water makes me able to walk easily in the pool without the brace. We get out and go to change our clothes. Because I’ll need to put a new tampon in, and because I’ll need to put on a bulky ankle brace, I use one of the family/handicapped changing rooms rather than a stall, but there are five empty family rooms, so there are enough for everyone. The rooms are numbered. I am starting to do the intricate straps on my brace when I hear someone trying to open the locked door.)

Me: “In a minute!”

(They continue to attempt to open the door and pound on it.)

Me: “I’m almost done. Hold on!”

Woman: “I need this room.”

Me: “I’m almost finished.”

Woman: “I need it!”

Me: “I’m just putting my shoes on!”

Woman: “You don’t understand! He’s very particular about numbers!”

Me: “Sorry! I’ll be out in a second.”

(My ankle is swollen and the brace is bulky, so I have some trouble getting my shoe on. All the while, this woman is legitimately trying to break down the door. I finally finish, and open the door. The woman looks at me, looking up and down my body.)

Woman: “You don’t even have a kid with you.”

Me: “No, I don’t.”

(I figured that she probably had a child with her who was autistic or similar, and I understand that sometimes there’s no reasoning with a developmentally disabled child in meltdown. But I don’t know what she expected me to do, or how breaking down the door was the solution.)