(In middle school, I have a health teacher who looks like a gentleman; he’s old and has glasses, neat gray hair, and a cane, walking with a slight limp, and wears a tweed suit every day. He is a bit short, around 5’5″, and isn’t imposing at all. His voice is slightly scruffy and monotone, but mostly everyone respects him. One day we’re learning about drugs.)

Teacher: “All right, class. So, if anyone were to offer you any drugs, like so…”

(All of a sudden, he sets his cane against his desk, drops into what I can only call a “thug” pose, and says with a “gangsta” accent:)

Teacher: “Ey, my man, want soma dis?”

(All the students are shocked as he gets back up, gets his cane, and continues teaching. Rare but similar moments happen later in the year. I’m in high school now, and the same health teacher has transferred to the high school. My friend and I often walk past him standing in front of his door when we go to our math class. My friend is very talkative, annoying, and can sometimes be cruel without knowing it. One day we are reminiscing on how much more of a d**k he was in middle school.)

Me: “…and remember that time when I kicked you in the crotch?”

(Just as I say this, we pass the health teacher, and he mutters something under his breath. My friend suddenly looks impressed and starts laughing.)

Friend: “[Teacher]! Oh, my God!”

Me: “What? What’d he say?”

Friend: “‘Kick him again!’”

(My roommate is treating us to lunch at a popular burger joint.)

Waitress: “Welcome to [Burger Joint]. May I take your order?”

(We both place our order for burgers and fries, with sweet tea.)

Roommate: “I want to add an order of onion rings to the order.”

Waitress: “6 or 13?”

Roommate: “Inches.”

(You could have heard a pin drop after he said that, despite me coughing after choking on my water. The waitress’s eyes are wide open in surprise from his comment as I get up and excuse myself. I come back a few minutes later after laughing myself out to find the roommate completely nonplussed about the scene he almost caused.)

Me: “[Roommate], next time watch what you say when asked questions like that.”

Roommate: “I didn’t say anything bad; I just answered her question.”

Me: “I’ll explain it on the way home, as it isn’t appropriate to talk about it here.”

(After we are done eating our meal, I stay behind as the roommate goes out to the car, and I approach the waitress and give her a $25.00 tip on a $40 order.)

Me: “I apologize for what he said; he didn’t know what he was implying.”

Waitress: “That’s okay. I got a good laugh and so did my coworkers.”

I have the fun combination of vasovagal syncope and orthostatic hypotension. In layman’s terms, I faint. A lot. I’ve gotten fairly good at knowing and avoiding my triggers, or at least being able to recognize the onset of an episode early enough to mitigate it. That said, I do still actually faint at least once or twice a year, and it’s gotten to the point where it’s honestly more annoying than distressing.

Understandably, though, the people around me are less nonchalant about it. It probably doesn’t help that according to witnesses, my eyes don’t close when I faint.

My favorite example of this is the time I went to the optometrist after many years without seeing one. He used what is apparently either an outdated or just very intense test for glaucoma, because everyone I’ve ever described it to says they’ve never had anything of the sort done. It involved placing my chin on a rest inside this terrifying-looking contraption while he very slowly pressed a little rubber stopper against the surface of my eye. As it turned out, this was a trigger that I did not previously know about — because I don’t make a habit of pressing objects into my eyeballs for minutes at a time — and I passed right out.

When I woke up, I was on the floor with a very flustered nurse keeping watch over me. This was where it got funny, as often when I faint there will be people who simply will not accept my insistence that if they just leave me alone for a few minutes, I’ll bounce right back. The nurse was one of these sorts, and she insisted that she should get me some water, or an ice pack, or anything. I consented to a glass of water more for her sake than mine, but she wasn’t placated. She insisted that she should get my dad from the waiting room. Now, my family is just as used to my little spells as I am, so I warned the nurse that he was not going to be as comforting as she thought, but if she really wanted to, she could go get him.

She came back minutes later, and as soon as my dad saw me lying on the floor in a dark exam room — because the nurse also insisted on turning out the lights for some reason — he just gave a long-suffering sigh and informed me, and I quote, “You’re such a wuss.”

I cracked up laughing. The nurse was horrified.

I got up and walked out under my own power five minutes later. I now warn my optometrists before any and all glaucoma tests, but sometimes they don’t listen and I get to relive the whole situation over, though unfortunately without my dad’s commentary.

(I am a shift manager for a popular fast food restaurant. I am in the drive-thru taking cash, and I have an assistant with me. Our store has recently been fitted with “tap to pay” card readers.)

Customer: *pulls up to the window*

Me: “Hi! Did you have the [meal]?”

Customer: “Yes.”

(He hands me his card and I notice that it is a PayPal card with a “tap to pay” symbol on it; it’s the first one I have seen since the card readers were upgraded. On a whim, I tap the card against the reader, assuming nothing will happen. Imagine my surprise when the payment goes through and my assistant and I are excited and amazed.)

Me: “Holy s***! It actually worked!”

Assistant: “Whoa, that’s cool.”

(I return the card after finishing the transaction and we finish the order, still talking about it with the customer.)

Me: *after the customer leaves* “We are just a bunch of nerds.”

(I drive my partner to and from work so I can have the car all day. Our car doesn’t have a roof, so it can get pretty cold when it’s windy. This is fine in the summer. When autumn rolls around, however…)

Me: “Do you want to take a jacket?”

Partner: “Nah. It’s only a 15-minute ride. I’ll be fine.”

(My partner is shivering by the time we get there. Nine hours later…)

Me: *on the phone* “I can bring you a jacket.”

Partner: “Nope!”

Me: “It’s evening. It’s going to be much colder.”

Partner: “I’m fine!”

(My partner shivers the whole way and wraps up in a blanket when we get home. I eventually stop asking; I figured my partner will break faster if it isn’t “my” idea to bring a jacket. Two weeks later…)

Partner: “Oh, and don’t let me forget to grab a jacket!”

Me: “I thought you said it wasn’t needed for a 15-minute ride?”

Partner: *sheepish* “I… may have been a bit stubborn…”

Me: *hugs* “I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself now. I don’t nag because I hate you, you know. It’s not a contest.”

Partner: “I know…”