Honey

This morning at a chain coffee retailer that rhymes with Tarducks, I got a delicious coffee from an enthusiastic barista who called me "Honey" a couple of times.

The coffee is hot and just the right blend. It appeals to the masses, which is why they've been so successful. You know what doesn't necessarily appeal to the masses? Being called Honey.

Taylor Swift (you've heard of her?) wrote a song about how when people called her Honey, it was because they were condescending to her, criticizing her, or hitting on her.

That hasn't been my experience. Although her line about crying all the way home after someone tells you your skirt doesn't fit? That one is universal to women everywhere.

But I'm a sucker for it — a waitress, a barista, a random woman in the grocery store calling me Honey as an endearment. I wasn't raised in a culture that stood on formality, so it doesn't feel too familiar. It feels like belonging. Like I'm part of the group. Accepted. Even the occasional Greek waiter who ends every question with "My Love" doesn't give me the ick. If anything, it makes me lean in.

My mother is fond of saying you see what you're looking for. So fond, in fact, that she rolls that chestnut out each and every time I complain about something. But she's probably right (Do NOT mention this to her).

I wonder if being called Honey is a little bit of a test — not about manners or boundaries, but about how you see the world. Neither reaction is right or wrong. It just tells you something about you.