I like to think of myself as an open-minded person. I like to think of words, specifically words put together in a way and then used against me, as being hurtful only IF I let the words be hurtful (think name-calling). Through the years, I have been called MANY names. And most of them had been fun nicknames that I liked.

I’ve told lots of people that you can call me anything, and I will answer to it (like the wrong name), but I am least likely to answer to Mrs. Sherwood because I always think they are addressing my mother-in-law and not me. (This despite being married for 14 years this September.)

But this past week, while on vacation, I was reminded that there are names that I do NOT like to be called.

Way back when hubby and I were dating, I remember we had a conversation about nicknames. I specifically told Steve that he was not allowed to call me anything to do with food. I would not be addressed as cupcake or honeybun or sugar pie or any other possible food combinations. I was adamant.

Steve and I will celebrate 20 years together next March, and I am no longer sure why my younger-self was so adamant about the no-food nicknames rule. I was handing out very few rules back then, and this one was definitely in the top five, and I’m not even sure there were five rules (or three rules for that matter).

Looking back now, I wonder if it had something to do with the way I look at food. It is something you get rid of either by eating it, avoiding it or dieting to get rid of the results. I didn’t want to be something Steve would enjoy for a short time and discard rather unceremoniously (trust me, you don’t want to think TOO hard about this discard part of what happens to food).

Although I am uncertain now why it bothered me so much then, this particular rule resulted in my hubby developing the best nickname ever for me: Lydia. More often I even get to be “his girlfriend Lydia.” Lydia is NOT food.

But 20 years have passed, and once in a while, usually to tease me, my husband might call me cupcake, and I laugh. It isn’t a real nickname. It is a tease. So now I am really good with whatever you call me. Even food names.

Or so I thought.

During vacation last week, I was in my camper taking a “reading nap.” This is when I go off to a quiet spot to read a book, and then I fall asleep while reading it. I used to do this frequently on the in-laws’ couch on hot summer days. Anyway, at one point during my reading nap, I heard by father-in-law and my husband talking. They weren’t standing near my camper. I was in the next campsite (and at this campground, the sites are some of the largest I’ve seen). One phrase stood out:

FIL: Where’s your old lady?

I think this was when I was closer to the nap than the reading part of my relaxation, but I still heard it.

Hours later, when the hubby and the FIL least expected it, I inquired about who might be the “old lady” being referred to earlier. I asked Steve first. He immediately began laughing. When it comes to Steve, I have a magic (possibly superhero) power. He says things he thinks I won’t hear, and I hear them. I do not react. I just go on as if I didn’t hear it, and in my response I mention something that makes it clear that I DID indeed hear him (and the unstated message is, “busted! AND you will pay! Only it is done in a much more dignified manner externally while internally I’m doing an obnoxious dance in the end zone).

Hubby shirked the blame and quite happily placed it all on his dad. “Go ask him,” he told me.

And so I did. And the FIL responded the same way the hubby did: lots of laughter. And then a question, “How did you hear that?”

Off and on, for the rest of the vacation, the FIL and I referred to each other as old.

And I learned something about myself. You can call me honeybun or sweetie pie or Lydia or even Al. I just never want to hear my hubby say “me and the old lady” or really anyone referring to me as “old lady.” And I don’t think my problem is age-related. I think I really object to this because it is usually meant as possessive, but in a way that you really don’t value the possession and you would love to find a way to get rid of the possession, but no one will take it off your hands — as in that woman that I have been caring for and putting up with for years and don’t you just feel sorry for me that I have to put up with HER?

Of course, that’s just my interpretation. It is why this particular name bothers me when so many others don’t.

I wonder what it means that I just realized some of my other favorite nicknames were also names that weren’t my own: George and Lynn. My brother Chuckie calls me Lynn, and it was also the name a good friend (Nikki) used to call me. My dad would call me George as part of a game. “George, why are you playing with Linda’s toys?”

I also realized today that my kids call me “momma,” and I had to stop for a second and wonder where they got that from. I’ve never called myself momma. Mom, yes. When they were little, “mommy.” But that’s it. But when my children are feeling very loving, I become Momma. And it is Momma and not Mama. And I like it. Especially since it isn’t Old Lady.

Thanks for playing.