An odd thing I’ve noticed, after consuming a steady diet of films from the 1930s, is that people in those movies often call each other “darling.” I’m not talking just about spouses or romantic couples. Grown children call their parents and grandparents “darling.” Siblings call each other “darling” (which, to me at least, feels kind of creepy). Even good friends can call each other “darling.” Outside of the romantic context, the “darling”-ing seems to confine itself to women. I don’t recall any instances of Army buddies calling each other “darling,” but I may just not have gotten to those movies yet.

I seem to remember my parents calling each other “darling” once or twice, but only in an ironic context. By now, “darling” has apparently died out entirely, replaced by “honey” or “sweetie.” (I’m not sure where “dear” fits into the chronology. Does anyone these days call anyone else “dear”?)

The whole culture of terms of endearment is mysterious to me, because I’ve never been able to use them. I’m not sure at what point in my life I’m supposed to have acquired the habit. Children don’t call each other “honey,” so what impels them to start saying it when they get older? And how do they decide which name to use? I’ve been called “honey” or “sweetie” by servers in diners, but I don’t think I’ve ever been called both by the same person.

For me, the only natural way to address someone is by the name they were introduced to me as. In nearly 35 years of marriage, the only thing I’ve ever called Debra is “Debra.” (She went through a “Debbie” phase in high school, so friends from that era are grandfathered in, but she made very clear when she met me that no one else is permitted to call her Debbie.) There are occasions when I’ll perceive that other people are addressing someone differently than I’ve been — for example, that everyone but me is calling Elizabeth “Liz” — in which case I’ll ask Elizabeth, “Would you rather be called ‘Liz’?” And if she says yes, then “Liz” is what she becomes. There’s no going back.

I genuinely can’t emulate the casualness with which most people seem to use pet names and nicknames. It’s not that I haven’t tried. Years ago, I noticed that my girlfriend Marcia was occasionally called “Marsh” by her family and friends, but only in the most informal circumstances — as in “Hey, Marsh, look at this!” I decided that I would try to do the same, and even told her of my intention. But execution proved to be difficult. Every time I was about to address her, I had to ask myself, “Which is more appropriate for this occasion — ‘Marcia’ or ‘Marsh’?” Whenever I concluded that “Marsh” was the way to go, it came out of my mouth sounding so stilted and rehearsed that I was already cringing by the time I got to “sh.” After a few such attempts, Marcia and I both agreed that I should stop.

What’s especially strange is that I have no such problem when it comes to animals. Debra’s and my first cat, Brook, was almost never addressed as “Brook.” I could call her “Brookie,” “Brookface,” “Brooklyn,” “Broccoli,” or pretty much anything else without the need to reflect in advance. When I meet a cat or dog on the street, I hear myself saying, “Hello, Cuteface!” or “Hey, Beautiful!” as I drop to my knees to administer pets. Maybe it’s because the furry creature has no idea what I’m saying, so it’s impossible to come out with anything inappropriate.

Speaking of animals, another thing I’ve noticed in old movies is that people’s pets never have names that traditionally belong to humans. Nick and Nora Charles’s dog is Asta, Dorothy Gale’s dog is Toto, Susan Vance’s leopard is Baby, Gillian Holroyd’s cat (in “Bell, Book and Candle”) is Pyewacket, Roy Rogers’s horse is Trigger, and Friendless’s cow, in Buster Keaton’s “Go West,” is Brown Eyes. (Tom Mix had a horse named Tony, but that’s a rare exception.)

I’m not sure when it became fashionable to give people’s names to pets — the first instance I can remember is in the early 1980s, when David Letterman talked about his dog, Bob — but it’s time for that trend to pass. I have had cats named Brook, Timmy, and Mary Beth, so I’m as guilty as anyone, but I’ve since decided that giving animals human names is lazy and no longer cute. At the time I write this, there are adoptable cats at Oakland Animal Services named Beanie, Lentil, Clover, Hiccup, Rascal, and Acorn. I hereby advocate for more imaginative names like those.