I don’t know how it happened. Somewhere along the way after I moved south, I became Honey. Everywhere I go, somebody calls me honey. Every time I’d enter the elementary school, which was often thanks to a T1 kid, the girls behind the desk would call me honey. Hi honey. What can I do for you, honey? Bye hon.
At first I was a bit offended, if only because – though I may not always look my age – I am at least as old as they are. After the third or fourth time, I realized it wasn’t that big a deal and felt familiar in a way I could appreciate. Like becoming part of a tribe.
But the tribe spread to other places. The doctor’s office. The pharmacy. The liquor store. (Not that I go there that often to be recognized as a regular or anything.) And then – the Asian-owned nail salon – hi honey, when I walk in the door. Honey, pick your color. Even the men who work there call me honey. Which, under any other circumstances, might be considered weird and/or offensive in our currently heated feminist world.
No biggie. I find it amusing. They don’t even know my name, I’m SURE of it. But I thought it was kinda nice and familiar, welcoming. Until I realized that everyone is Honey and, well, I kinda felt a little less special. Which might indict any of the above people for laziness since by calling everyone honey, they never have to remember any names. Brilliant!
Even Todd calls me Honey. Shocking, I know. But I’ve never been a big fan of such an old-fashioned endearment between married folks. Not wanting to crush his affectionate gestures, I just let it flow. And now, much to my dismay, I find myself calling him Honey.
And what’s worse? I caught myself calling my co-workers Honey and thought, Good God how did this happen to Me?? But we are a tribe at the restaurant. A motley mismatched tribe, but a tribe, nonetheless.
There’s something in that old-fashioned endearment. I shied away from it because it felt unnatural to use it. Perhaps I didn’t consider myself old enough to use it without it sounding false and condescending. I don’t consider myself old, like the original Honey who graced my life for only a short time.
The summer of 1989, I took a job as an ancillary aide at a nursing home. Among the many colorful characters who graced those halls (which could comprise a whole other post), was a woman in her 80s we called Honey. We all called her Honey, because it’s what she called all of us. Constantly. I didn’t know then that she was in the early stages of dementia, though it should’ve been obvious after she told me one afternoon that she was a having a baby. Honey was having a baby!
So, now I’m in my late 40s, thinking about how I was Tara, and somebody’s babe, baby girl (I’d kill to hear that again), Miss Tara, and then Mommy, which evolved to Mom, to Todd’s Honey, and now to the public at large – just, Honey. No one calls me Mrs. anything. Most likely because hardly anyone can pronounce it correctly anyway. There are also a handful of nicknames that I won’t mention here. Even Veruca calls me Honey, which is incredibly annoying and sort of unintentionally condescending.
I briefly considered renaming the blog The Honey Chronicles. But that seems to imply a different genre of blogging, and would leave a trail of disappointed visitors in its wake. Nothing wrong with that genre, but it’s not where this Honey’s blog is going.