Rubber Gloves

When I was in 6th grade, we had to dissect various formerly living creatures for a science class.  This is not what most 6th grade girls consider fun.  The teacher said if we were squeamish about touching the dead things, we could wear surgical-type latex gloves, but we had to bring them ourselves.  OK, trip to the drug store, then.

I didn't know where they kept the gloves, so instead of wandering the store all night, I had to go ask an employee.  I have never been a particularly outgoing person - the running theme of this blog is that I'm super awkward at all times, and it was much worse in the glaring spotlight of prepubescence.

The employee I found was an older lady, probably about my grandparents' age.  She seemed benign.  I approached cautiously.

Me:  Excuse me, where are the rubber gloves?
Her *staring*:  You're not going to use them on yourself, are you?
Me *mystified*: ....
Her:  *intense stare*
Me *terrified*:  ...we're dissecting a worm in class tomorrow and I don't want to touch it...
Her *with obvious relief*:  Oh, all right, they're over here.

To this day I have no idea what she thought I was going to do, and honestly, I would rather not know.  This is one of those things where I'd rather remain puzzled than know what she actually thought of me.

Bad Hostess

Friend (looking at phone):  Huh.  My roommate wants to know if I'll be home for dinner.
My Brain:  OFFER FOOD!  OFFER FOOD!
Me (slightly panicked):  Are you hungry?  I can...(abrupt stop at the realization I have run out of truthful words)
My Brain: THERE IS NO FOOD, YOU FOOL!  ABORT!  ABORT!
Friend:  No thanks, I'm good.
Me (relieved):  OK
My Brain:  SCRAMBLED EGGS!  MAKE SCRAMBLED...what?  Oh thank God!