A guy asks for a pack of cigarettes from behind the counter.

Me: “Alright, can I see your ID, please?”

Customer: “Why?” 

Me: “Because it’s the law. Anyone buying tobacco has to show ID if asked.”

Customer: “Why?”

Me: “Because the law says you need to be at least twenty-one to buy tobacco products in the U.S.”

Customer: “Why?”

Me: “Because before 2019, the minimum age was eighteen, but Congress raised it to twenty-one nationwide to cut down on teen smoking.” 

Customer: “Why?” 

Me: “Because data showed that most smokers started before twenty-one. If you push the age up, fewer teens pick up the habit, and smoking rates go down overall.”

Customer: “Why?”

Me: “Because nicotine is addictive, and the earlier you start, the harder it is to quit. The body and brain are still developing into your twenties, so starting younger increases long-term damage.”

Customer: “Why?”

Me: “Because nicotine binds to receptors in the brain that regulate dopamine, basically rewiring your reward system. That’s why people crave another cigarette even when they know it’s harmful.”

Customer: “Why?” 

Me: “Because the human brain evolved to reinforce behaviors that release dopamine, like eating or social bonding. Nicotine hijacks that system, tricking your brain into treating smoking like a survival need.”

The customer stares at me for a long moment. Then, without a word, he slowly hands over his driver’s license.

Customer: *Grinning.* “Eh, I’m just f****** with you. You’re the first one to last longer than my ‘why’ routine.”

I swipe his ID and hand him his cigarettes.

Me: “Great, now ask me why I still work here.”

This took place in October 1984. Before I can go into the story, I must give you some background.

Shortly after I turned ten years old, I learned that I had a mild form of muscular dystrophy. In fifth grade, when my classmates found out about this, I instantly became ostracized. An eighth grader still not having friends and putting up with years of abuse from my classmates, I decided to try to earn some respect by becoming the equipment manager for the football team. This did work to earn me some respect, but it still does not make me any friends.

Fast-forward to 1984, my senior year in high school. 

Before every varsity football game, the varsity team would go to a nearby Ponderosa for dinner. Next to this Ponderosa was a convenience store. They had a couple of video games. The first couple who finished eating would play video games while some of the other team members would stand around and watch them. This one particular Friday, I happened to be playing a video game. 

A real jerk on the football team says:

Jerk: “So, [My Name], have you gotten rid of your stupid disease yet?” 

Me: “No, [Jerk], you’re still hanging around!”

There were about six other football players there at the time, and they all started laughing at the jerk.

Later, while we’re in the locker room, getting ready for the game, the other players kept calling him a disease. When the coach asked why, the captain of the football team told the coach what happened. For the entire game, the coach referred to him as a disease. He never spoke another word to me. 

I worked in retail for ten years, and only once did I have the perfect comeback ready at the perfect time.

I work in the hot food counter of a grocery store. I have just informed a woman that we’re cooking up a fresh batch of fried chicken. It needs to be noted that we’re both White.

Me: “Ma’am, we’re out of the fried chicken for the moment. We should have some ready in about half an hour.”

Customer: “Because you sell too many to the ethnics!”

Me: *Making a “huh?” face.*

Customer: “You know. The Blacks, mostly! They love fried chicken, and there are too many of them! There’s not enough to go around anymore!”

Me: “Ma’am, we sell food to the community regardless of skin color, and I’d ask you not to make such comments around me.”

Customer: “Oh, come on! You and I are the same. We need to stick together in these times.”

Me: “You and I are not the same, ma’am.”

Customer: “You’re young and going through some rebellious phase. When you’re older and have had things taken from you by invaders to this country, you’ll see that we’re cut from the same cloth.”

Me: “Ma’am, you’re cut from a piece of cloth I wouldn’t even wipe my a** with.”

She gasped and ran off to find my manager. She found out it was difficult to make her complaint, considering my manager was Black.

When my manager asked me about it, and I told him, he just laughed. Then he said:

Manager: “She was right, though.”

Me: *Looking shocked.*

Manager: “I do love fried chicken…”

CORRECTION: A misspelled word has been corrected.

I have the female ♀ symbol tattooed on two of my fingers. A customer notices as I am checking them out.

Customer: “Isn’t that the symbol for women?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

Customer: “You have it twice.”

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

Customer: “Does that mean you’re a lesbian?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

Customer: “Oh. Well, you’re fine with me. I choose to hate the sin, not the sinner.”

She beams proudly, as if she’s said something selfless and charitable.

Me: “Oh, I’m the same way, ma’am. I hate the belief, love the believer.”

Her expression soured completely after that…

My husband and I are announcing our pregnancy to both sets of parents at a family gathering. My parents are overjoyed. My mother-in-law, not so much…

Mother-In-Law: “You’re adopted, right?”

Me: “Yes, you know that.”

She brings it up all the time, like she thinks she can sling mud with it. It bothers her how unbothered I am about it.

Mother-In-Law: “Well, since nobody knows where you came from, aren’t you afraid of what could be wrong with your baby?”

Me: “Excuse me?!”

My Parents: “Are you being serious?!”

Mother-In-Law: “What?! She has no heritage, so it’s a risk!”

Husband: “Mom, considering how much you drink and that you take so many antidepressants, you rattle, I’m going to take my chances that our child turns out more like my wife than like you. Now, are you going to be happy for us or are you going to leave?”

She left.

Our daughter is now almost a year old. Mother-in-Law has met her precisely once.