I encounter quite a few personality types at work. Maybe all of 'em. How many types are there? Let's see …
There's the codger (think Walter from Jeff Dunham), the rich codger and the rich codger's wife. Middle-age guy undergoing crisis; middle-age woman undergoing peri-menopause; the young guy and cute girl; the woman with family; the guy without the family (may be married but usually shows up alone and can't remember the wife's birthday … or the kid's); the beautiful woman (by definition rare—usually found gathering in makeup aisle); the guy in the suit (also rare, as they feed in theaters and party rooms); the retired gent (who may be "the codger" or a separate class: the nice guy); the impatient lady (is it done yet? I have an appointment! My husband is out in the car! I have ice cream out in the car! My dog is out in the car!); the poor—and I mean dirt poor—lady who has a cab or bus waiting outside the store ("Can you hurry? I have a cab waiting for me.")
Kids are a separate species entirely. Some are tappers (tap-tap-tap on the counter: "Mom, why is he taking so long?"). Some are whiners, some are just cute.
Women, too, fall into different distinct sub-classes depending on dress: there is the teeny-bopper (who might be as old as twenty-five); the skank (usually has on an extremely low cut tank-top with some baseball logo tattooed on each breast, pregnant, but giving out her phone number); the beauty (elegantly dressed, curvaceous, coiffed, in heels, skirt and sweater—in summer she wears … oh who cares what she wears—she beautiful!); the older lady (your mom); the woman next door (be very careful).
And then there is my personal bête noire: The know-it-all. She tells me about the drugs I'm dispensing. She gives me medical advice. She gives me worldly advice. She postulates about my psychological state (when I have a day off, but my co-workers fill me in). And, of course, she means well. She is the one I wish would go away, transfer her scripts, and move. Anything. Just go away.