There comes a time in every woman’s life when she is called “Ma’am.” For some of us (ahem, me) that time comes early. Much, much earlier than any of us expect (again, that would be me).
But it does happen to all of us – you know, except men. Men apparently are “sir” from the time they are born until the time they die, unless you live near the beach. Then men are always “dude” whether they are 4 or 104. Personally, I don’t think this is fair – not the dude part, the sir part. I mean, ma’am is all about age. After all, young women are called “miss.” Then once we hit a certain age, bam! Miss is gone and replaced by ma’am, a word that may or may not bring about images of wrinkles and Depends and send us careening headfirst into the plastic surgeon’s office.
And there is not a woman on the planet who does not remember the first time she got ma’amed. It usually happens the very same day that she buys a bottle of wine and is not carded. On that day, a woman can drive to her local grocery store, get a bottle, hand it to the cashier, fish around in her wallet for her ID and hear the dreaded words:
“There you go, ma’am. That’s $5.83.”
Yeah. It’s not a good day and not just because the purchase was for some incredibly cheap wine. Nope. It’s not a good day because while the newly ma’amed woman is standing there, wondering just exactly how she went from miss to ma’am in one freaking day, the cashier is moving onto the next person in line. The person who is now being called “miss” and being asked for ID. All while I – er, I mean the woman in our fictional example who bears absolutely no resemblance to me – stands there like an idiot, waving her ID around and having nobody on the planet look at it.
Again, not that it was me. And after it occurred, I certainly didn’t go home, put on my reading glasses and stand in front of the bathroom mirror examining my face for any trace of wrinkles and crow’s feet and weird drooping on my upper eyelids. But perhaps the fictional woman did.
Oh, and the fictional woman was using that cheap wine for spaghetti sauce. Just so we’re clear.
Anyway, some women will fight being ma’amed with everything they have. They will Botox themselves to within an inch of their lives, rendering themselves completely incapable of moving any part of their face except their mouths. For examples of this, I suggest a viewing of the “Real Housewives” of any city. It will frighten you how much those women are able to yell at each other without frowning or blinking.
Other women (and by this I really, honestly, truly do mean me) just get used to it. I mean, it’s just a natural fact of life, right? One day you are a miss and the next you are a ma’am. Until, of course, the day comes that you are what I like call “faux-missed.”
A faux miss is what happens when a woman of a certain age walks into a store or restaurant and is greeted as “miss.” Now let me say that some people can be mistaken. Some can look at perhaps a hairstyle or an outfit and believe you are a miss. And some are really, really nearsighted. But when somebody stares deep into my crow’s feet and calls me “miss” more than once, I’m actually insulted.
I know. I know. I’m contrary. But I’m a ma’am and frankly, I know it. I may not want to admit it. I may think it’s unfair that men are not addressed according to their ages. But deep down I know that being called ma’am is a sign of respect. So when someone obviously is calling you miss because you obviously are not a miss – guess what? I pretty much automatically think you’re a jerk.
I guess it comes down to this. I’m not thrilled with being a ma’am. But I know I’ve earned it. Also? I’m thinking of calling men over 40 “senior sir.” That evens out the playing field, right?
