Hate is a strong word; that’s what my mother drilled into my head growing up. I wasn’t really allowed to use the word, dislike was a convenient replacement. That changed during college though. I contorted into somewhat of an extremist. There is love and there is hate; there is no middle ground, and the top of my hate list is reserved for Baby Talk.
Don’t get me wrong, I understand the urge to mispronounce and mush words together when there’s a baby around. What I don’t get is the need for women to speak to their significant others in that particular manner. I was interning in New Delhi during my junior year of college and as fate would have it, my roommate was a Baby Talker. I never realized how much I could hate it until the summer was over.
Imagine this; you’re exhausted from a tough day of lugging mannequins around, you get home barely alive, and all you want is a hot meal, a thick blanket to cosy into, and most importantly, silence. Instead, you are subjected to the sound of a grown woman addressing a grown man in the most irksome toddler voice you could possibly imagine. If that wasn’t enough, you also get the divine opportunity to wake up to the same unpleasant noise. And you can tell said roommate to cut it out, but that won’t change a damn thing (mind the language). The shrill Bengali baby talk shall continue after a brief two-hour break.
I couldn’t help but think it was a bizarre daddy-daughter thing they had going on which only fuelled my hatred for the concept. The idea that a woman must seem child-like, helpless, and weak for a man to find her attractive really doesn’t appeal to my sensibilities. A damsel in distress is a common kind of woman men fall for, but actively dropping IQ points and making them feel needed all the time is taking it one too far. I could go on about the underlying significance of women who baby talk, but that’s not what I hate the most. It’s the sheer pitch and the shrill squeals that makes my blood boil with a burning passion.
There was also a gang of girls back in college; a gang I had aptly named Butterflies. They would put Elle from Legally Blonde to shame. Not only did they babble with their boyfriends in their tailored baby voice, they also took it upon themselves to talk to each other in the same way, day in and day out. Yes, day in and day out. I was in the same class, there was literally no escape. Needless to say, over the years my hatred for Baby Talk only intensified.
It’s the equivalent, no, it is worse than nails on a chalk board, a wet bathroom floor, yellow light, or slow internet; these all are a few of my least favourite things. One may not understand the hatred for all these, but nails on a blackboard is a universally hated sound. And I would take an hour of it, if I could avoid Baby Talk for the rest of my life. If anyone could get me a deal, I would take it, and be more than eternally grateful. So, anyone?