DAMN THE MA’AM

 

This morning saw me rushing to work, running late as usual. As I was leaving, my fiancee looked at me admiringly and said “I like your makeup today”. I wasn’t wearing any makeup. If there was any doubt in my mind as to whether this was the man for me, this would certainly have erased it. I humbly blushed, which I’m sure only served to increase my radiance. I am a goddess, I thought as I set forth proudly from the apartment to face the world. 

Fast forward a few minutes. I am in line at Starbucks. Finally it is my turn to give my order to the approximately 28-year old American Apparel skinny jean-clad, faux-hawked, over-caffeinated, hipster barista with the pedophile moustache my order. “What can I get you today ma’am?” MA’AM????? Heeeeelllllll no!!! You see, I have come to terms with being called ma’am in certain situations. When 15 year-old shop girls or teenage boys call me ma’am? Cute. I can see they are trying to be polite, and I have accepted that at twice their age, I may appear an old bag. When a cute little girl pointed at me and said to her mother “Look mom, that lady has red shoes” I dealt with it. I guess I’ve crossed into lady territory. I’m a woman, no longer a girl. Fine, I get it. But when some jackass dude at a coffee shop who is essentially my chronological age calls me ma’am. Not OK. To you, sir, I am a Miss. Pronounces with the ess sound, not Ms., pronounces with the zed sound, which makes me think of my old battleax of a grade one teacher. I’m 31, not 75. I still feel young and vital, and my hips don’t creak when I walk. So, dear readers, the next time you think of calling a woman ma’am, think again. It is never polite to insinuate she is a crusty old maid. But, the sun was shining, and I was determined not to let him ruin my good mood. I was still gorgeous, I was a natural knockout, I was Hebe, goddess of youth. But I did put on some lipgloss when I got to work. Hey, my lips were dry. 

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