“You can’t say that word anymore,” snapped the female cashier.

She was reprimanding an older man customer in the supermarket. The cashier was very matter-of-fact, glaring at the elderly man from across the cash register like he’d just drop-kicked a kitten.

Meantime, a teenage girl was bagging his groceries, eyes averted downward.

“Wait,” the man replied. “I can’t say WHAT anymore? What’d I say?”

The cashier nodded to the teenage employee. “You called her ‘sweetheart.’ You can’t say that. It’s disrespectful and inappropriate.”

Inappropriate? Nobody in line could believe what we were hearing. For starters, the man in question was old enough to be someone’s grandfather. Secondly, this is Alabama. I’ve had police officers call me “sweetheart” after traffic violations.

The old man seemed genuinely surprised by the rebuke. He looked like he was almost in tears after being scolded publicly by a cashier who was younger than most articles of his current wardrobe.

Someone in line stepped forward to defend the man.

“I don’t think he meant any disrespect,” offered the unfortunate Samaritan, a middle-aged man who was about to be verbally neutered by the cashier. A middle-aged man who might or might not be writing this column.

“It’s called gender respect,” the cashier shot back. “He don’t know her, she don’t know him. It’s gender shaming.”

“I don’t think calling someone ‘sweetheart’ classifies as shaming,” said the castration victim.

Nobody knew how to respond any further. So we didn’t.

The old man took his groceries quietly. “I apologize,” he said. “I call my grandkids sweetheart all the time. It was an honest mistake.”

The teenage girl was still looking at her shoes. She said quietly, “I thought it was nice.”

The older man took his groceries and left.

And that’s when I got to thinking about the ever-growing list of things you can’t do anymore.

And I’m not talking about the big things, such as smoking unfiltered Camels in the maternity-ward waiting room. Actually, it’s not a “maternity ward” anymore. It’s the “labor and delivery unit.” “Maternity ward” is a sexist term implying that only women have babies.

What I’m talking about is the little things you aren’t supposed to do anymore. Such as eating dessert after each meal.

When I was a kid, we ate dessert after EVERY meal. Sometimes it was a bowl of ice cream. Other times, your mom went to great pains, preparing a pie from scratch, featuring a crust that was made with genuine, 100-percent Oleo.

But today, only 12 percent of American households eat dessert. That number is shrinking.

“Dessert is making Americans obese,” remarked a US Department of Health and Human Services official. “A healthier after-dinner alternative would be nuts or raisins.”

Nuts and raisins after supper. Joy.

But is dessert really what’s making America fat? Our grandparents’ generation, for example, sometimes ate dessert AS A MEAL. My grandfather often a Hershey bar with Marshmallow Fluff and Graham crackers for lunch. My grandfather weighed a buck-fifty, sopping wet.

Couldn’t the obesity epidemic have a little something to do with the average American sitting for 8 to 11 hours per day?

Also, you can’t discipline children in public. You can’t raise your voice. And you definitely can’t spank. Currently, it’s not illegal to spank your kids in the US. But it’s already illegal in France, Germany, Sweden, and lots of other countries.

You can’t casually touch someone, like a hand on the shoulder. This is harassment.

You can’t visit someone’s house unannounced, non-chalantly ringing their doorbell. You must call or text first.

You can’t use paper maps. You will be pulled over for reckless driving.

Your kids cannot walk to school alone, play on a playground without an adult present, or leave the home unsupervised on a bike like Americans did in the 1970s. This is neglect.

Keep in mind that America’s crime rate has fallen by 50 percent since the 1970s. Fifty. Since 1966, there has been a dramatic reduction in all crimes including police officer fatalities, property crimes, and homicides. We are—in effect—living in one of the safest eras in our national history.

Although if I’m being honest, it doesn’t feel very safe, sweetheart.