Just stumbled upon this sub, and the perfect memory resurfaced. CW: Vomit.
Last year, my great aunt (stereotypical boomer extraordinaire) stayed with my parents and me (24F) for a week. It was a nightmare. She’s one of those people who’s always right, and if you try to educate her, it’s “disrespectful.”
For context: I’m allergic to a protein in cow’s milk that gets broken down when the milk is heated above a certain temperature or when certain additives are used. This means I can enjoy butter, cheese, and ice cream just fine, but drinking straight milk? Disaster. So, I drink lactose-free milk, which has been treated to break down that protein.
One morning, during her stay, I was sitting at the breakfast table eating cereal with my usual lactose-free milk. My aunt noticed my milk bottle was different from my parents’ and asked about it. I explained my allergy. My dad, helpful but with impeccable timing, chimed in, mentioning that my milk costs about a dollar more than regular milk but is worth every cent for my health.
Cue my aunt going on a full rant: “That’s way too expensive for milk! There’s no such thing as lactose intolerance—God designed us to drink milk! You’re just following these ridiculous young people trends and social media fads.”
By this point, she had spent the entire visit harassing me about everything.
- “When are you getting a boyfriend, OP?” (I’m ace and questioning aro.)
- “You’re getting old; you need to have babies for a purposeful life!” (I have a spinal condition and physically can’t carry a baby.)
- “Why did you cut your beautiful hair?” (Because it was 35°C, and my hair is thicker than a bison’s fur.)
- “Pretty girls like you shouldn’t dress like that. Be more ladylike!” (I was wearing cargo shorts and a Star Trek T-shirt.)
I’d had enough. So, being the petty gremlin I am, I put down my lactose-free milk, grabbed the regular bottle, and poured it all over my cereal.
Not even five minutes later, I felt the all-too-familiar churn in my stomach. My mom noticed my face go pale and shot me a “You didn’t…” look.
Ten minutes in, my breakfast made a rapid and dramatic reappearance—all over the table and, most satisfyingly, my aunt.
As my mom whisked me off to the bathroom, I heard my aunt—finally concerned—ask if I was okay. “Should we go to the hospital? Do you have a stomach bug?”
And then, my dad delivered the deadliest, most deadpan reply:
“Still think she’s just being trendy?”
