# # Darlin'

Brother, I Can See Your Skull.

Brother, I Can See Your Skull. - The Coreyshead Blog


She says it warmly and with a hint of naughtiness, as if over the breakfast table after a night of lovemaking:
“I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”

The only problem is she’s not my lover, she’s my bank teller.

It’s how she always refers to me, to all the men she deals with:
“Have a great day, sugar.”
“You need to sign the back of the check, honey.”
“I’m filling the bag as fast as I can, darlin’, please don’t wave the gun in my face.”

Despite the bar miles mapped out on her, she’s not unattractive and, when she looks you in the eye, she does so with a delightful, saucy spark that tells you she is a lot of fun to laugh with, but I’m not attracted to her in *that* way. I don’t like her calling me honey, sugar, sweetheart, darlin’, or anything of the sort. When transacting at the bank, I prefer terms like “sir,” or my name, or … “sir.”

If I was elderly or underage I might not find it so disturbing but she is clearly within my age group. Call me immature but when a strange woman refers to me in such terms while handling my cash, it conjures up a different sort of transaction in my mind, the hint of which makes me decidedly uncomfortable in the confines of the bank’s staid and air-conditioned lobby.

Yet, to ask her to not refer to me so seems rude; unfriendly. I can imagine the temperature thereafter dropping a discernible number of degrees whenever I should happen into her queue, a cold “sir” coming from her now pursed lips in place of the previous choices. No, I don’t want to hurt her feelings. That would be worse.

Perhaps I could, instead, dissuade her by replying in kind? For every “sugar” or “sweetheart” I am handed, I could return a “snoogums” or a “baby.”

“Here’s your receipt, honey.”
“Thanks, sweetlumps.”

The only problem is, despite a ring finger encumbered with gold and diamonds, I’m not 100% certain that this is an arms race I am prepared to enter into. Something about the aforementioned sparkle in her eye tells me that she may offer her own interest rate – one I’m not willing to cash in on.

Further, I find it interesting that her behavior, a throwback to more innocent times, has been accepted as long as it has been. Surely I am not alone in the sense that her customer appellations seem overly familiar?

Imagine, if you will, that the person saying these things was male, instead, and saying them to female customers. Said person would last less than an hour, yet the teller in question has been at this bank, saying these things, for at least three quarters of a year, if not longer.

I dunno. Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe I’m being too sensitive. Maybe this is just the kind of “politically correct” thinking I’ve long hated and that has now crept into my own, previously impervious way of looking at things.


Well, anyway: thanks for reading, tootsiepants.

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