Honeyed
I stepped out to get a coffee this evening and was reminded why I stay home. Because it’s safe. For them.
The cashier was having trouble ringing up my life-sustaining fluid, causing a delay in the line. Before that, though, in walks Biker Guy dressed like Robo Cop’s unemployed cousin. He drops a glove near my foot and I immediately step back because I already know his mother failed to teach him one of society’s more basic rules: unless you’re sleeping with a woman, don’t suddenly bend down near her crotch.
Fast forward. The register issue is still being sorted out and apparently the acquisition of his blunt paraphernalia has entered crisis status. From behind me comes: “Honey, c’mon, hurry it up now.”
Honey. He called me Honey.
I’m probably old enough to be his mother’s mother, but that’s not even the point.
The point is the entitlement. There is a certain species of person that wanders through life convinced every inconvenience is a personal attack. The line is moving too slowly? Someone else must be at fault. The register is having a problem? Someone else must be corrected. Three minutes of waiting? A humanitarian crisis.
What fascinates me is the confidence. Imagine looking like a rejected extra from a low-budget post-apocalyptic motorcycle movie and deciding the problem in this situation is the woman buying coffee. Not the register. Not the employee trying to fix it. Not the fact that nobody in the building works for you. No. The problem is apparently me.
“Honey.” Sir, if a brief delay at a convenience store causes this level of emotional distress, adulthood may not be the adventure for you.
I maintained my composure, which should qualify for community service hours. When I was younger, I’d see older women walking around looking irritated and wonder what happened to them. Now I know.
Nothing happened.
They simply spent enough years in public. Enough years listening to people who believe waiting their turn is oppression. Enough years dealing with grown adults who mistake impatience for importance. Enough years being called “Honey” by men who should have been told “No” more often as children.
This generation doesn’t need a safe space. It needs a time-out.
Honey. He called me Honey.