Don’t call me “Baby”!

      To be clear: the offending term wasn’t uttered by a dirty old man—or a dirty middle-aged one, for that matter. No, the speaker was a 30-something woman at a hospital information desk.

      I wasn’t necessarily expecting “ma’am.”  I’ve been called “sweetie” or “darlin’” most of my life by diner waitresses. That’s not so bad. But in a hospital setting, it always bothered me when nurses would address my then 80-something dad that way.

      Barely being covered by a hospital gown is indignity enough at any age, but the false familiarity always seemed disrespectful. I’m sure they meant only to express warmth and compassion, but the widespread practice always struck me as patronizing….

      And now here I am in my 70s—no hospital gown in sight—just a random “older woman” coming up to the desk, and the receptionist immediately addresses me as honey. Okay, not a big deal.   

      But then as she looks up my appointment, she casually and distinctly calls me “baby”—baby—more than once. Mind you, I live in the South, but this was not a southernism in this case, no southern accent.

     The first time she said it, I thought I’d misheard her. The second time was clear as a bell.

      I almost said something but I was already a bit stressed about my appointment—for a stress test, coincidentally—so I chose not to.

      Once I got to the waiting area for my appointment, I was shaking my head in disbelief and texting my husband: “On what planet did she think that was appropriate?!” By the time I left my appointment, I’d decided to do her a favor by gently pointing out that her habit was wildly inappropriate and might well be considered patronizing.

      Alas, when I got to the information desk, someone else had taken her place.

       I was disappointed, frustrated—and maybe a little relieved.