(My husband is having a day-long series of medical tests at a Veterans Administration hospital in Kentucky. I drove him there, so I am camping out in the waiting room working on some homework on my laptop for the supply chain management courses I am taking online. I have been working for about an hour and a half when I am approached by an elderly man.)

Elderly Man: “What are you doing on that computer?”

Me: “I am a Transportation and Logistics Management student at [Well-Respected Online college]. I am working on the homework for my supply chain management courses.”

Elderly Man: “Why aren’t you going to nursing school?! Nursing is the only respectable occupation for a woman!”

Me: “What? I can’t qualify for nursing school because I had a stroke a few years ago and my right hand is partially paralyzed.”

(I hold up my right hand and show that I can only use my middle finger and thumb.)

Elderly Man: “But you could be a nurse if you tried harder! Why are you playing with that silly supply chain management stuff? Only men do that!”

Me: “I also have an active Class-A commercial driver’s license to drive tractor trailers.” *reaches into my purse to pull out my license* “I like transportation!”

Elderly Man: “But nurses are so sweet! You should be sweet like a nurse!” *motions to one of the VA nurses*

(The VA nurse chimes in:)

VA Nurse: “I wouldn’t want her as a nurse with that hand of hers. She would never pass nursing school, anyway. I have met [My Name] before, and that woman is planning on going to law school after she finishes her bachelor’s degree because of the way she has argued her husband’s VA disability claim.”

Elderly Man: “How disgraceful! A woman working as a truck driver and wanting to become a lawyer! Why can’t women be sweet and realize their place in the world?!”

(I put my earbuds on and cranked some Bon Jovi on my laptop and tried to ignore the old coot until he was called for his appointment.)

(I am a mother of twins, in my mid-thirties, and yes, I am rather overweight. At around 280 pounds, you can legally call me obese, but I am healthy, well-dressed, and absolutely able-bodied all around. I am sitting in the train to work, minding my own business, when the old lady sitting opposite of me lets out a sigh and directs the following gem at me.)

Lady: “You know, if you would just lose some weight, you would be pretty enough.”

(I snap out of my thought, at first not realising she’s addressing me. Then, as it sinks in, I feel anger rising.)

Me: “And if you would not harass people you don’t know, you would not be such a bitter old hag!”

Lady: “Well, it was meant to be a compliment! You have no business insulting me!”

Me: “Well, I certainly did not start insulting people on the train for no reason.”

(Silence ensued until she moved seats at the next stop. Guess what: I know I’m too heavy, but people who tell others like me to “just lose weight” are the ones to tell people with depression to “just cheer up” and people with phobias to “just calm down.” Of course, that is possible, but if it was that easy, nobody would suffer freely.)

(We’re at a New Year’s party, playing card games and catching up. One of my friends has brought a newcomer to our gathering, who seems… interesting.)

Newcomer: *while trying to hold cards we’re handing him very artistically* “Whoa, look at this; it’s like the sixteenth chapel over here!”

Friend: *after a pause* “Did you just say, ‘sixteenth chapel’?”

Newcomer: “Yeah?”

Friend: “Did you mean the Sistine Chapel?”

Newcomer: “Oh, is that what it’s called? I just thought there were a lot of chapels in Rome so they just started numbering them!”

(I live in the outlying islands of Hong Kong. Not to brag, but I make a cracking veggie sausage roll. Friends both veggie and carnivorous rave about them and I am always happy to give out the recipe. One weekend we are invited to a barbecue at a friend’s place, so I make a batch to take along — barbecues can be fairly miserable for vegetarians. I pop them on the table of snacks and grab myself a drink. Presently I am introduced to a young woman who has recently moved to the island. The following ensues:)

Young Woman: “These sausage rolls are delicious! It’s so nice to have proper veggie food at a barbecue!”

Me: “Aw, thank you! I absolutely agree; my husband and I are both veg and we love them, too.”

Young Woman: “You must give me the recipe!”

Me: “Oh, hang on.”

(I am about to tell her what goes into the rolls but my attention is diverted to my overly-helpful two-year-old trying to carry three plates at once. I bend down to take them off her and gently tell her just to take one since they’re heavy. Straightening back up, I am greeted with…)

Young Woman: “WELL, FINE! I suppose it’s one of these bloody secret family recipes is it?”

Me: “No, no, it’s—“

Young Woman: “I can’t stand people like you. You all think you’re so clever and above all of us, and you don’t even have the decency to share a little love!”

Me: “No, no, really! It’s—“

Young Woman: “SHARE A LITTLE LOVE!” *flounces out*

Friend: “It’s not a secret recipe, is it? You gave me the recipe after Christmas.”

Me: “You know me; I’m all about sharing the love!”

(I am in Hong Kong. I enter an elevator that is descending. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze at first, so I accidentally bump into the other occupants who are already in there. Everyone involved in this story appears to be East Asian, myself included.)

Me: “Whoops. Sorry, everyone! My apologies.”

(We go down a few floors and several people exit. The only people remaining in the elevator are an old man and me. We go down one more floor, and standing in front is a young man who is hesitant to enter.)

Me: “What seems to be the matter, friend? Come on in; there’s plenty of room.”

(The young man is standing still, and not moving an inch.)

Me: “Are you going up, or going down?”

Young Man: “Up!”

Me: “Well, okay, looks like you might want to try the other elevator. This one’s going down for at least several more floors, so it’ll be a while before it starts going back up again. Have a good one, then.”

(The young man stops acknowledging me and just waits for the door to close. While we’re going down again, the old man standing next to me finally decides to talk to me.)

Old Man: “Where are you from, son?”

Me: “Me? I’m from Canada, sir.”

Old Man: “That explains it! Your English and your manners are both exceptionally good! I knew there was no way you could be one of the local kids!”

(Rather unfortunate that he has such a view of his own country’s youth, but hey, he said it, not me.)