The other day, a guy helped me off a city bus.

“Here you go, sweetheart” he said, standing near the last step and holding out his hand, “watch your step.”

I took his hand and said thank you, walking quickly down the sidewalk and willing the carsickness I had acquired from hours on a hot, crowded, jiggling city bus to dissipate before I threw up on 6th avenue. It wasn’t until my dizziness subsided that I had the energy to think back on my chivalrous gentlemen friend.

The guy who had helped me wasn’t much older than myself. Granted, he was bigger, about 200 pounds and seven inches bigger, but the years between us couldn’t have been more than a few. Here you go, sweetheart. I mean, he had helped me. But had I really needed the help in the first place?

One my biggest pet peeves is when men who don’t know me call me something endearing. Sweetheart. Honey. Used completely on purpose, those words—when uttered by a male close to my own age—are designed to make everyone in the conversation aware of who is in charge. Those words are condescension at it’s worst. I may be short and have the tendency to look young, but if you’re not my dad, boyfriend, or 100 year old neighbor, I’m certainly not your Honey. Read More »