I am in my first class in culinary school. A few weeks into the semester, a girl in my class is talking to a few of the guys in our class. She annoys me, so I try to ignore the conversation, but she talks very loudly.

Girl: “I am so glad my new kitchen shoes came in. I couldn’t find anything cute in my size, so I had to order them online since my feet are so small.”

I glance down at her feet since I also have a terrible time finding shoes that fit properly.

Me: “Where did you order them from, and how much were they? The only ones I could find are not very comfortable”

Girl: “[Website], and they were only $175.”

Me: “Oh, okay, thanks.”

Girl: “When you order them, it takes four weeks to get them.”

Me: “That’s out of my budget, so I’ll just stick with what I have, but thanks for the information.”

She rolls her eyes, turns away from me, and talks to the guys again. Her body language makes it clear that I am not supposed to be a part of the conversation, so I go back to what I was doing.

Girl: “My feet are so small, it was all that was available. Everyone always comments on how small they are. Like, every day, someone is commenting on how cute and little my feet are, but it is just so hard to find shoes that fit.”

I leave the area to do something else.

A few days later, we are in class again.

Girl: “It’s just so hard to find shoes in my size. All anyone ever talks about is how small my feet are. Some people just don’t understand how hard it is to find small shoes, and they are so expensive when I can.”

During this statement, she glances at me and gives me a dirty look before droning on and on for about fifteen minutes about her shoe struggles.

The next class, she goes on again about her shoe size, this time bragging like it’s something to be immensely proud of, and the following class, she starts in again. This time, it’s about how unfair it is that all her friends share shoes but she can’t because no one has feet as small as hers.

It’s been two weeks of her shoe size dominating the conversation in the kitchen. I’m not much for chit-chat in general, so I don’t particularly care that I am left out of her group conversation, but she talks so loudly that it’s hard to discuss anything else or ask questions about the assignment. This, combined with the nasty looks, has me just about done.

I look at her feet again to confirm my initial observations.

Me: “Hey, [Girl], what size shoes do you wear? I’m always looking for someone that wears the same size as me. I would love to be able to trade or borrow shoes instead of having to buy them all the time, especially since many stores don’t carry shoes that fit me, so I find myself buying shoes that are a bit too big.”

Girl: “Well, I only wear a size seven and a half, so I doubt we wear the same size.”

Me: “Oh, you’re right; I need a size five, so your shoes would be way too big on me. I didn’t even realize that seven and a half was considered small since the average shoe size is an eight, but I guess that is slightly smaller than an eight. Thanks, anyway.”

I walked away as she gave me the most murderous glance ever. It may have been a bit petty, but I just wanted to be able to hear myself think. Since she did not say a single word for the rest of class and never brought up her shoe size again, I’m okay with it.

My mother had a very long labor with my brother. It had started in the early morning, and it was now well past noon, but absolutely nothing was happening.

Mom: “Honey, you must be starving. Go grab some lunch from the cafeteria.”

Dad: “What? But what if I miss it?”

Nurse: “It’s okay. She’s not going to deliver in the half-hour or so that you’ll be in the cafeteria.”

Dad: “But what if she does?!”

It took almost ten minutes for my mother and the nurse to convince my father that everyone would be fine, he should go get lunch, and there was nothing to worry about, but he eventually let himself be convinced to go eat in the hospital cafeteria.

Not long after he left, the doctor came in to check on my mother and brother. During the check, they discovered that the umbilical cord was wrapped around my brother’s neck and his heartbeat was growing irregular. My mother was put under almost immediately for an emergency C-section. The nurses moving her were running, and she didn’t lose consciousness until they were almost to the operating room. Not long after, my brother was safely delivered with no injuries or further complications.

After being reassured that everything was fine and he wouldn’t miss anything while getting food, my father returned to discover that his wife was being stitched up and he had a new son.

We still joke about how he missed my brother’s birth because he went to get lunch.

I’m in line at the self-checkouts. One line feeds into the bay of eight stations. Two people are in front of me and I see two empty stations. The people are so focused on one area of the bay that I’m not sure if they have noticed the empty ones.

Me: “Excuse me, there are two empty stations there if you’re ready.”

Man #1: “Those say ‘card only’ and I have cash, so I’m waiting for one of the others.”

Man #2: “So am I.”

Me: “Oh, okay, I couldn’t see the sign from this angle. Will you excuse me, then? I’m paying by card.”

Man #2: “Sure.”

He pulls his cart closer, giving me space to pass.

Man #1: “But I was here first!”

He pushes his cart, completely blocking the walkway.

[Man #2] and I both stare for a few seconds, and then, thankfully, one of the cash stations opens.

Man #2: *Loudly, to me* “He does realize that you using that machine does not affect him at all, right?”

I’m a college student with three younger brothers. The oldest is a senior in high school and the two younger ones are in middle school. There tends to be minimal planning when I come home for a weekend, so it’s usually a welcome surprise for them. The youngest is always visibly excited, but the older two don’t tend to react much. At most, I’ll get a glance and a quick “hi.”

One night, I come home late to stay for part of the weekend. I get there a little after the two youngest ones have gone to bed, but my parents say that I can go to their room and say hi.

I go and knock on their door.

Youngest Brother: “What?”

Me: “It’s me!”

There’s a moment of silence before I hear him LEAP out of bed and run to the door before he throws it open. I talk with them for a while before letting them go back to bed.

I leave the next evening. Before I go, my mother speaks up.

Mom: “You know, [Middle Brother] does miss you when you’re gone.”

Me: “Really? He barely says hi.”

Mom: “He had to write an assignment on his laptop about a happy surprise he’d had, and he wrote about you coming home for the weekend.”

He does love me!

I have horribly irregular periods and a family history of uterine fibroids. While I tried talking to my parents about these issues in high school, I was ignored, even though I often had to be picked up from school due to the sheer pain of my cramps. When I talked to my general practitioner, she didn’t think there was anything to worry about. I didn’t manage to get a gynecologist appointment until I was in college after going nearly four months without a period.

Before my appointment, I prepared for a fight. I dressed nicely. I compiled over three years’ worth of data from my period tracking app to prove that my cycles were far longer than normal and were edging into “please see a doctor” territory. I printed out a color-coded chart and a line graph to prove that my cycles were getting longer and longer. Basically, I was expecting to have to fight to be taken seriously since I was young, looked even younger, and was otherwise quite healthy.

When I got to the appointment and met the gynecologist, we ran through the basic first-time patient questions. I pulled out my line graph and the table chart, explained how I’d formatted them, and silently prayed that she would take me seriously. She looked quite shocked, so I was prepared for the worst.

Doctor: “Do you mind if I take these to add to your records?”

Me: “No problem. They’re just printouts.”

Doctor: “Thank you so much! I wish all our patients did this.”

She paused my appointment to run my charts down to records, and they transferred all of the information they could use from my charts to my patient file. The OB heard me out on all my concerns, and I ended up getting a low dose of birth control and a “just in case” test for another condition for which I was at a higher genetic risk. My relief was immeasurable.