Tonight I went through the Wendy’s drive-through and a teenage boy called me “sweetheart.” As in, “Here’s your order, sweetheart. Have a great night!”
It threw me. Either he’s one of those people who just sprinkle endearments meaninglessly through their conversation, or I am pushing eighty. Which is it?
I call my kindergartners “sweetheart”.
I call Paul “sweetheart”.
I call Katie and Caleb “sweetheart” (when I’m not calling them Destructo Boy and The Mad Scatterer).
I don’t think it would ever occur to me to call another adult sweetheart, least of all one older than me. It made me feel…well, a teeny, tiny bit nettled.
But then the fries were ready, and I got over it.