My favorite thing about this blog is that whenever I find myself in an uncomfortable or disagreeable situation, I can take comfort in the fact that at least there's a good chance I'll get a funny blog post out of it.
On a completely unrelated note, I went to the eye doctor this morning because I need more contacts. I scheduled my appointment for 7:30 a.m. because I secretly hate myself.
I've mentioned the wisecracking ball of awkwardness that is my optometrist before. Today's experience was no different than those that came before, with the exception that I apparently look a little older now. Instead of asking me which high school I go to, he asked if I was in college. When I laughed and told him I was twenty-six, he redundantly informed me that I look like a sophomore in college. (In his defense, it's casual week at work, and I recognize that my t-shirt, jeans and tennis shoes combo doesn't exactly scream business professional.)
This was followed by the customary thirty seconds or so of awkward silence - a circumstance in which I'm becoming increasingly comfortable, mostly thanks to the whole postability thing I mentioned earlier. The rest of the exam passed without incident, except for the fact that he called me some variation of honey, sweetie, or doll about a GAJILLION TIMES.
I've always said that one of my biggest pet peeves is when my twenty year old waitress/customer service rep/dental assistant calls me hon. It's patronizing coming from anyone, but I find it especially aggravating when that person is clearly younger than me. Over the past few days though, I've embarked on something of a journey of self-discovery.
For example, I went to lunch with some work friends on Tuesday, and our young, male waiter kept referring to one of the guys who was with us as boss. I'm not sure why, but this really rubbed me the wrong way. I just wanted to be like, "How do you know I'm not the boss? IT'S BECAUSE I'M A GIRL, ISN'T IT?!" But then I remembered that I am not the boss, and that I'm also not much of a feminist, and that maybe I should just shut up and enjoy my free chips and salsa.
Anyway, long story short, I've expanded my horizons as to which demographics piss me off in their attempts at being overly familiar. Twenty year old waitresses, rejoice, for you are no longer alone! (And, uh, while you're at it, scooch down because a bunch of creepy, middle-aged eye care professionals are being added to your ranks.)
I've discovered that the only group of people by whom I don't mind being called girlish nicknames are old people and my husband--a distinction that becomes considerably blurred when you consider Gary's affinity for yelling at the neighbors to turn that damn rap music down.