“Thank you Ma’am…”
When people call me “Ma’am,” I perform a searching pirouette to make sure they’re actually addressing me. It breaks my heart when the teenage cashier offers up an un-assumed status. Am I that old?
Ma’am is my mother.
Ma’am is the lady strolling down the street with three leashed Corgi’s obediently licking her polished heels. Ma’am is my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Barnes, who scolded disrespect like’s we’d just committed Larceny. Ma’am is the politician demanding your regard, even when their policy imprints utter abhorrence.
Ma’am is not me…is it? The high-bun donning, odd sock wearing, tie die spattered, Australian.
I feel like a fraud. An impostor in my 26-year-old shell. Take those words back would you? You now have me questioning my age and allotment in life’s monarchy. Thanks alot Sam. You curly haired, once friendly faced, CVS employee. It’s not like I was buying Menopause medication or reading glasses. I was purchasing Club Soda!!
My mind is running around life’s playground like a pre-pubescent teen, while real teens are commenting surreptitiously on our age gap. I’m wearing this adult veneer in trickery. A mascarade of maturity is only assembled in hope that my not so subtile messages capture societies’ soul.
Am I really a Ma’am? You be the Judge.