“Have a nice flight,” the Asian woman in her freshly pressed Hawaiian Airlines uniform said, ripping my ticket and smiling so cryptically I spent the next two hours of the flight fixated on whether or not she was being condescending.
“Hooonnnn—” her red lipstick moved in slow motion, and I dissected the minutia of her facial expression for the next twenty minutes as our jet ascended across the Pacific. I thought of a girl in eighth grade, Shelby was her name, who also called me Honey. Her tone so dismissive. As if to pat me on the head and say, “You’ll understand one day. But for now, here’s a juice box.”
You’re fourteen! I scowled with my eyes.
Champ occupies the same vitriolic space in my brain. As do Buddy and Pal. Brother is context-dependent. If you have a man bun and we just met at a breathwork circle, please don’t. My name is Kyle, and yours is Faces The Rising Sun. Let’s not assume a sense of closeness that we haven’t earned. But if we just packed out an elk together or completed nine pushups, let’s throw on Rogan and brother our way to the sensory deprivation tank. Oddly, it feels weird to call my two actual brothers, brother. Huh.
Now that I’m in Hawaii, Bra is in the mix. Bra is my favorite and I will start throwing it around the moment I hit the rental car desk. Thanks for the keys br—. This is risky business, as we mainlanders really shouldn’t say it. But, like the Do Not Open sign on the airplane exist, the one next to the bathrooms, nine percent of me really wants to do it.
As I reflect on these words, and the uncanny valley from affectionate to condescending, I remember that as I walked down the jetway, I heard the stewardess greet the passenger behind me. She called him Love.
So, how do we feel about honey and others? What did I miss?
Thanks cupcakes.
P.S. I was just interviewed by Holly at Whole Collective. They’re trojan horsing the corporate world with profound hippie shit. We talked about copywriting, humor for mental health, and achievement bulimia. Give ‘em a follow.