Several months into our relationship, my boyfriend began calling me Skillet. I pictured the heavy, cast-iron implement on our stove: indestructible, practical, built to withstand extreme heat. Nothing soft about it—just pure function.
Though not flattered, I let it go for weeks. Finally I asked him why he called me that, hoping he would say because skillets were hot, and so was I.
“You have a stomach of steel,” he said.
This was true. I poured so much habanero sauce on everything I ate, he would sweat just watching me.
He called me Skillet for about eight years. It became more endearing, the way nicknames often do, but I never truly liked it. I longed to be called Baby, Gorgeous, Sexy, Hot Stuff, Lover—something that makes a woman feel desired.
That relationship has long ended. I’m now fifty-two. Menopause came quietly—one month I bled, the next I didn’t—and along with my periods went that longing to be desired by a man. I think back on those eight years I spent with that boyfriend and want to shake my younger self. Why did I stay with someone who named me for my digestive capabilities? I think about all those names I’ll never be called and lament the years I spent being admired only for what I could endure.
Tamara MC
Arizona
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