This morning I went to the Lab on Telegraph for a fasting blood test. This means 12 hours of no food, starting, say, at 8 p.m. I get to the lab at 8 a.m. Then, phew, that’s over. I got there at 8:14 a.m. (not bad, eh?). The waiting room was crowded, and only one Blood Tech was on duty. My stomach was grumbling, and I felt like growling along with it.
Finally, my name was called. I jumped up, as if awakened from a nap. “Come this way, sweetie” said the blood lady. “Sweetie?!!” I thought. “Don’t call me Sweetie.” But I dared not say it aloud. After all, she had the needle.
I walked all the way to Bancroft, muttering to myself.
Don’t call me sweetie. I may be old, not tall, gray haired. But I’m not a sweetie. I’m not your child, or your cat, or your parrot. I’m not your lover or your doll. I have a name, I have dignity. Don’t call me Sweetie, or Dear, or Honey, or….
Thank goodness. Now that I’m home, I can write it all down. I feel better now, but —
DON’T CALL ME SWEETIE.