(I work at an ice-skating rink as a trainer, and I also help people who are having trouble free-skating. A girl comes in with her boyfriend, and it’s fairly obvious they’ve never skated before. They’re having a great time laughing and dancing, and even when they fall, they laugh it off and get up. I give them a few tips here and there, but I focus my work on some of the younger kids who are frightened. An hour or so later, as free-skate is ending, the girl approaches me.)

Girl: “Hi. I was just wondering if I could speak to your manager?”

Me: “Oh, of course! Let me go get him.”

Manager: “What can I do for you today?”

Girl: “I just wanted you to know that [My Name] was absolutely amazing! We had a great time, and she was always everywhere at once to help anyone who needed it. Without her, we wouldn’t have had nearly as much fun!”

Manager: “I’m glad to hear that! We don’t get many compliments in this line of work, but they really do help to gauge our performance. [My Name] is only a couple of good reviews away from a bonus!”

Girl: “So, is this one of those places that gives bonuses based on guest feedback?”

Manager: “Yes, it is!”

Girl: “And do you count the feedback based on groups or individuals?”

Manager: “Well, there’s no real way to tell if the people who have come in were part of a group or not, once you write the review down.”

(After a couple of minutes of thinking, the girl and her boyfriend each wrote a review, thanked us, and walked out. Later on that week, my manager got a call from her asking when I would be working next, and on that day she brought in nearly thirty people! My manager gave them a group discount, and they all had a great time. At the end, the girl made each and every one of them write a review for me. I ended up getting that bonus, and a promotion on top of it! If you read this, thank you so much for being so awesome!)

When I was in high school, I was a serious history geek. My Civil Air Patrol unit volunteered to help out at an airshow every year, and when we weren’t doing volunteer shifts, our time was our own. The first year I went, I was struck by how cool the reenactors were, and I decided that I wanted to do some reenacting, too. I did my research, and decided on a persona that I thought I could accurately portray. I tried to find a unit local to me but had no luck. I saved my money to rent a uniform and equipment, and I had to talk my parents into letting me do all of this.

The second year at the air show, after my volunteer shift, I changed into my persona’s clothes and went out to wander around the reenacting units, hoping to meet up in person with some groups I’d read about online. I was (and am) a bit socially awkward and shy, so it took a serious amount of investment to make myself get out there and try to talk to people.

To my dismay, one of the units I’d read about on the Internet was a lot more standoffish than I’d hoped, and one member even pointed out some discrepancies with my uniform. I was able to explain that I knew that what I was wearing was different from what most of the unit was wearing, and what that signified (artillery vs infantry, if anyone cares!), but it really didn’t seem to help, and I left the encampment feeling like a total failure at both reenacting and talking to people.

Still in uniform, thinking about how I’d never reenact again, I went to get food and sat down at a long table by myself. A total stranger took a seat across from me, correctly identified that I was supposed to be in the artillery, and complimented me on my unusual but totally valid choice of persona. We started talking, and he said it was so nice to see a younger person take an interest in history like this. We talked for a good twenty minutes, and I’ll never forget how he totally changed my mind on reenacting. He re-convinced me! While I didn’t go back to that event (or that time period), I still do reenacting, and I’ve come to realize that if you do your research, people will appreciate it.

(My husband and I are flying home from our vacation. I’m a nervous flyer, and turbulence elevates my anxiety, big-time. Sure enough, our plane hits some turbulence. I close my eyes and start counting to 1000 in my head; for some reason, that seems to help. My husband holds my right hand to comfort me. A minute or so later, someone else grasps my left hand.)

Me: “Eh?” *opens eyes*

Flight Attendant: “Are you okay?” *lets go of my hand*

Me: “I’m a little nervous.”

Flight Attendant: “Look at me. If I’m not scared, you don’t have to be. Read your book; you’ll be fine.”

(And I was. I wrote a letter to the airline later, giving them her name and the flight number, telling them how awesome she is. I hope she got a raise.)

(It is the late 90s, and I am 12 years old. I get to go on a ten-day trip to Italy with my family and five other families. It is planned through a travel agency, so we are already signed up to see and do certain things. The day arrives when we reach Venice by bus, and I am not feeling well at all. It turns out, I’ve gotten food poisoning from the rest stop we ate breakfast at this morning. I am the only one who ate a particular bad food item, and therefore am the only one who is sick. My parents are pretty upset, because getting on a gondola is out of the question for me, and it’s something we’ve all been looking forward to. I am already nauseated enough on dry land. They are discussing which one of them will stay with me while the rest of our group goes on the gondolas, or if they could possibly switch off at some point, when our tour guide comes over with an older Italian lady.)

Tour Guide: “Good news! You can both go on the gondola ride. My friend here will stay with your daughter.”

Mom: “Oh! Thank you, but we don’t want to impose. I can stay with [My Name].”

Tour Guide: “No, no, no! You must experience the gondola! [My Name] can stay here with [Lady]. She owns a restaurant near where we will dock later.”

(After talking it out for a few minutes, and after our tour guide assures them again she’s known the lady for a long time, my parents agree to meet me at the restaurant after the gondola ride. So, the tour guide walks the lady and I back to her little restaurant on the water. I am so sick to my stomach that I nearly throw up again before we reach it. The tour guide leaves, and the lady ushers me inside the restaurant. Inside, the lady says something in rapid Italian. I know only a few words, and am so nauseated all I can do is stare at her and try to not throw up on her shoes. The lady clucks her tongue at me and guides me to a little back room with an attached bathroom. She tells everyone we pass something about me in Italian. I assume she is informing everyone of my plight, but who knows. I also think random people keep calling me bebe, which I assume means “baby.” I’m sure I look pretty miserable. I spend the afternoon alternating between running to the bathroom and huddling on a tiny couch in that room. The lady checks on me every so often, bringing me some kind of broth and water to drink. By the time my parents come back with the tour guide, I feel better enough to make it to our hotel. They are very grateful to the lady for looking after me, and we even go to eat at her restaurant before we leave Venice, when I am able to eat again. Back home from our trip, a friend is asking me for details about everything we saw in Italy.)

Friend: “Oh! Did you go on one of those little boat things in Venice? Did the driver sing that song they always sing in the movies?”

Me: “Uh… No. My mom and dad got to go, but I was sick.”

Friend: “Aw, really? You didn’t get to go at all?”

Me: “No, but I became very well-acquainted with a Venetian bathroom. I also think I have an Italian grandma, now.”

(Thank you again, kind Italian lady, for watching a sick kid who couldn’t understand a word you were saying!)

(I work in a classy fast food restaurant, and we typically have families or couples that make each day a great one. I truly enjoy my job. This particular day, I have an elderly couple at the register. They are nothing but smiles.)

Me: “Your total is $18.87.”

(One of the customers hands me a $20 bill.)

Me: “Okay, here’s your dollar bill and your coins.”

Customer: “Goody! I have a new dollar bill, so I can show you my joke. Do you have time?”

(They are currently the only ones ordering, so I oblige. He then hands me the dollar bill.)

Customer: “I want you to find three things on this dollar: an important person, a dairy product, and a movie title that was once a book.”

(I am stumped and can’t figure it out. The customer takes the dollar back.)

Customer: “The important person is the president. The dairy product—” *he proceeds to rip the dollar in half* “—is half and half. The movie title that was once a book—” *proceeds to throw the ripped bill in the air with great theatrics* “—is Gone with the Wind.”

(I’m a very emotional person, and laughing generally brings tears to my eyes, which my coworkers have gotten used to.)

Customer: “If I had known this would be your reaction, I would have used the $20 bill!”

(Since this incident, he and his wife have traveled from their town — around 50 miles away — every single month to visit me, bringing a new joke or piece of wisdom every time. The ripped dollar bill is framed in my room, with the joke written beside it, along with all of the other stories, jokes, and quotes that he’s given me. He recently stated that he has more enjoyment from telling people about my reactions than actually telling me the joke!)