When I was in high school, I had a lot of anxiety — like, panic attacks several times a week anxiety — and being in public was my biggest trigger. However, with only one other income in the house at the time, not having a job was out of the question.

So, when I quit my job as a cook at [National Pizza Chain] because the boss couldn’t keep his hands to himself, I took the first job that called me back… at one of the busiest [Multi-National Big Box Retailer]s in the state.

I told myself I needed the job, and that if everyone else could suck it up, I could, too. After all, I’d been working on my anxiety, I was in therapy and on medications now, and I hadn’t had a panic attack in weeks. What could go wrong?

My first day on the register, things were going well. I was managing small talk even though I was nervous, people seemed happy with my speed and were understanding when I made a couple of small mistakes, and I was starting to gain some confidence that I could do this.

And then, I got my first coupon that wouldn’t scan. “Great!” I thought to myself. “An easy problem that I know how to fix.” So, with all the confidence that an anxiety-addled teenage brain could muster, I grinned at the nice little old lady who handed me the coupon, promptly forgot my computer module training…

…and typed in the nine-digit coupon code at the bottom.

I don’t know how manual coupon entries work at every store, but at [Retailer], the way you typed in coupons was to type in the dollar amount. Say you have a coupon for $2 off; you would type in 200 since there was no period to separate the dollars and cents.

So, when I typed in said nine-digit code, imagine my surprise when my register popped open and sent out an automatic alert to my manager that I was about to give this little old lady over two hundred thousand dollars in change on a purchase worth maybe $50.

I was mortified. At the time, this was the worst screw-up I could imagine on my first solo shift. It took two managers several minutes to fix my mistake and get the line moving again, as I was shaking so hard I couldn’t work the keyboard.

One of those managers distrusted me for the rest of my eighteen-month stint at [Retailer] because of this one mistake, even though I went on to be the fastest cashier in the store’s history (thanks to my anxiety). The other became like a work mother figure and eventually figured out that I did much better if I got to do put-backs for half of my shift, which greatly reduced my chances of making a mistake on the register.

The bigger joke here, of course, is that I somehow lasted eighteen months in a public-facing position.

I briefly worked as a teacher in one of the worst schools in the country. There were all kinds of social problems, including rampant drug abuse. One of the pupils decided to smoke cannabis to calm himself down before an exam; unfortunately, he smoked a rather large amount, so he was barely conscious when he filed into the exam hall.

Some minutes in, the teacher invigilating the exam observed that the boy’s exam paper had fallen on the floor and he was busily writing on the table. There was some anxiety as to whether this might mean that the table would have to be sent in to be marked, but thankfully, on examination — pun definitely intended — it was ascertained that what he had written on the table had nothing whatsoever to do with the exam paper or even its subject.

That was good, because the exam board would not have appreciated having a tabletop sent in for marking.

I have a coworker who brags about never answering her phone if she doesn’t recognize the number. I’m not sure what the big deal is; if it’s a telemarketer just hang up. Also, she says she never listens to voicemails because if it’s important they’ll call back.

Recently, she went to her doctor on a Friday because she had been feeling terrible for a while. The doctor took bloodwork and she went home.

The doctor’s office then spent the rest of the weekend trying to call her and tell her to go to the emergency room based on her test results. However, she didn’t recognize the number so she didn’t answer it.

Finally, they were able to call her next of kin, and he called her to go to the ER.

I’m a techie, travelling with a small play to be performed at a Womens’ Playwriting conference in Galway. The lighting designer and I go to check out the performance space that the play will be performed in.

We enter at the back of the auditorium and walk the tiered steps down toward the stage. The lighting tech is asking his assistant to adjust a light over the seating, but before the assistant can get there, the lighting designer — 6’5″ — just reaches up and makes the adjustment; he can reach it easily.

The lighting tech, who’s maybe 5’7″ or so, looks at the lighting designer and then down at his own legs, and shouts, “GROW, d*** ye!”

I visit my local [Global] coffee shop to have my lunch and work remotely. As a general rule, I always take extra time to clean up my area and throw away my trash. 

I have just stepped up to the trash bins, which are located underneath the shop’s milk/sugar/condiment station. I then watch an employee open the cabinet doors, take out the trash bins, and replace the full trash bags with empty ones. She has not yet placed the empty bins back in the cabinet. 

Just as she turns to tie up the bags, I thank her, and then proceed to throw my half-full tea drink into the completely empty, bin-less space! 

Thoroughly embarrassed and mentally face-palming, I profusely apologize to the employee and offer to help her clean up my new mess. She graciously declines… and wishes me a good day. I leave an extra tip and make a beeline straight for the door.