I used to work the swing shift — 4:00 pm to 12:00 am — at a gas station. One time, we were scheduled to have corporate people come by in the morning. I was asked to stay later and help get the store “up to standards” so the graveyard shift wouldn’t have to do it all.

So, finally, at 2:00 am, I started home. I came to a stop sign near a railroad crossing and waited for it to turn green. And waited. And waited. After about seven minutes, I realized it was a stop sign, not a light. It doesn’t change. I proceeded home, feeling more than a little stupid.

I run a business online selling handmade items. I’m firm in my prices, and I only do free or discounted work for personal friends. I get an email one day regarding a product I have listed.

Sender: “Hi. I’m wondering if you could do any customization for [product]?”

Me: “Depending on what you want done, yes.”

They send a brief description of what they want.

Me: “I can do that. It’ll be [amount] for what you want.”

The cost is only a tiny bit more than the standard version of what they’re requesting.

Sender: “Oh, can I just pay you [low amount]? I’ve got a few hundred followers on Instagram that I can promote you to!”

Me: “Unfortunately, I only accept monetary payment.”

Sender: “But you charge so much! I’m sure some of my followers will buy from you when I post about it!”

It’s pretty clear that they just want cheap stuff. I’ve had people try to haggle, both online and when I do in-person sales.

Me: “I can’t take a loss over a few more potential sales. [Low amount] wouldn’t even cover shipping for [product]. And I have a few thousand followers on Instagram, plus other social media. I set my prices to what they are based on the cost of materials, the time it takes to make it, and what similar products average at. If you would like a custom [product], you can pay [amount].”

Shockingly, they stopped replying.

For reasons I doubt I’ll ever understand, I had many “I don’t work here” incidents between the ages of nine and fourteen. It never happened again past my fifteenth birthday. I was taller than average during the early part of that time, but at nine and ten, I still looked very obviously like a child not old enough to work.

I am at the grocery store with my mom after school. I am wearing my school uniform, which consists of a plaid jumper — not the UK definition, more like a dress — a white button-down shirt, and knee socks. In my area, this is immediately identifiable as a Catholic elementary school uniform. I’m in the freezer section browsing some popsicles themed after kids’ shows, as my mom has sent me off on my own to pick out a snack.

So, basically, I look like a kid, I’m wearing an outfit only a kid wears, and I am standing in front of products aimed at kids. Despite all this, a woman approaches me. It doesn’t occur to me at first that she somehow thinks I work for the store.

Customer: “I need you to show me where I can find an [item I don’t recognize].”

Me: “Huh?”

Customer: “[Item]! Show me right now!”

Me: “I don’t know what that is.”

Customer: “Oh, you don’t, huh? Then radio someone for help!”

Me: “What?”

Customer: “Get. Out. Your. Radio. And. Call. Your. Manager. Now! Honestly, I don’t know why they hire people like you, with mental deficiencies.”

It finally dawns on me that she thinks I’m an employee. After standing frozen in shock for a moment, I glance pointedly down at myself and my obvious elementary school uniform while the woman is tapping her foot at me. She doesn’t take the hint.

Me: “Um… I’m nine.”

Customer: “I don’t care. Just call your manager already!”

Me: “I don’t work here. I’m a kid.”

Customer: “Manager! Now!”

I’m not sure what to do, but then my mom starts coming down the aisle. She sees the strange woman yelling at me and hurries over.

Mom: “Excuse me! Is there a reason you’re yelling at my daughter?”

Customer: “Are you the manager? Thank God! This employee is refusing to help me.”

Mom: “I’m not a manager. I don’t work here, and neither does she. She is my daughter. We’re shopping.”

Customer: “Of course she works here. What are you talking about?”

Mom: “No, she doesn’t. She’s a little too busy being a fourth-grader to have a job.”

That got through to the woman where nothing else did. She flushed bright red and walked away as fast as she could without running. And from that point on, I was mistaken for an employee about every third time I went to a store for the next six years. My family still jokes that I skipped the pre-teen stage of childhood and replaced it with a “sales associate” stage.

In a financial aid office at a private university in Florida, I ask a student for his mother’s federal tax form, as required by the federal government to receive financial aid. He says she is dead. We tell him we are very sorry for his loss and request a death certificate, again, as required by the federal government. The student goes away and returns three days later.

Student: “Here is my mother’s federal income tax form.”

Me: *Stunned* “Is this your stepmother?”

Student: “No, my mom.”

Me: “I’m sorry, I thought she was deceased?”

Student: “She got better.”

I’ve seen everything that happens in colleges.

Me: “Okay.”

I am at work and start getting cramps. I have endometriosis so I need to get painkillers in my system before my period starts or I become incapacitated from the pain. I forgot to refill the container I bring to work, so I don’t have any pain relief on me.

Me: “Hey, [Coworker], do you have any Tylenol? Or any other pain killers?”

Coworker: “No, I don’t take any medication. If you’re needing something like that, it means you have some deficiency, and your body’s telling you need to get more vitamins or water.”

Me: *Long pause* “Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to help my chronic illness. I have endometriosis.”

Thankfully, she actually apologized for making assumptions and offered to ask others if they had any for me.