It happened again. Just last week, a young woman called me "dear." I can’t begin to tell you how it irritates me. Doesn’t she know it’s a term of affection and should be used only for someone near and dear? How can a person young enough to be my granddaughter presume to know me well enough to use a form of endearment when she thanks me for dropping a dollar bill in her tip jar? "Thank you, dear," she had said.
     Is it because of my cane? Or my almost 60 years? Then it falls into the category of condescension. I have a name. She should find out what it is and use it.
     Some of the men I worked with in car dealerships called me dear. They knew it bugged me and did it anyway. Perhaps to let me know I was in their world, and didn’t belong. If I had, they would have given me a quick shoulder jab and called me Bud, like they did each other.
     One man I worked with called every one of his customers Bud. He couldn’t remember a name, so they were all his Buds. My father would not have approved.
     Dad always said a person’s name is very important to them, something they are proud of and want you to remember. If only he had given me a different name. I have never hidden the fact that until I reached adulthood I hated my name. In the Catholic schools of the 1950s and 60s, every student had a saint’s name. Being the only Andrea, I was drowning in a sea of Marys and Kathys. I was named after a saint but it was a man, Saint Andrew, so of course, I felt out of place among the other girls.
     Back then, the only people who actually called me Andrea were the nuns. Because my parents had been told for the first six years of their marriage they wouldn’t be able to have children, when they found out they were expecting me, they may have hoped their first born would be a boy. Which might be why Andrea became Andy even before we left the hospital. Or my dad thought it would be cute to give a little girl a boy’s name. After all, Andrea had been his bright idea, too.
     Whatever the reason, almost everyone called me Andy until I began selling cars in the mid-1970s. Being the only woman, I decided against macho and called myself by my very feminine name, Andrea.
     This is the name I used when I booked an appointment at a new hair salon a few years ago. Every time I went in for services, however, the woman who cut my hair called me "Hon." Her haircuts were nothing special, so the fact she couldn’t remember my name ticked me off. The very young cashier did it, also. After six visits, I realized everyone who worked in the salon did the same thing. Even when speaking to each other. I couldn’t take it anymore and never went back.
     So there you have it: If we’re not going steady, don’t call me Dear, Hon, or Tootsie-pie. I have two names, for goodness sake. Pick one or the other. And I’ll return the favor.