Don't Call Me Ma'am

At first it was flattering. Then it was amusing and somewhat entertaining. And, later, it became horrible. It was irritating, embarrassing and most of all, depressing. That word could make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. It was a simple word – an acceptable word that we’re accustomed to hearing and using everyday. Its meaning has the purest intent of politeness, common courtesy and in the South, it’s a must-use word when addressing any elder. The word in its basic context is simple, its use displays proof of manners, good etiquette and respect. It is also a word that signifies the sad departure of flowering youth, doing tequila shots in your dorm room, sleeping through your M/W/F 8 am college algebra class on a regular basis and midnight runs to Jack-in-the Box with your friends who fail to impress the trailing cars in the drive-through by cruising to the pick-up window in reverse.

The word? It’s the dreaded “Ma’am.”

Initially, it was barely noticeable and even then, it was uttered by the pubescent bag boy at the grocery store as his thin arms placed the last bag of groceries into the trunk of my car. “Have a nice weekend, ma’am,” he said, with a forced “my parents are making me work here/it’s 110 degrees in the middle of summer in Texas/and I’m sick of pushing this stupid cart and carrying bags for people like you who can’t get a good parking place close to the store” smile on his face. After all, who’s to take a “ma’am seriously from a 16-year-old boy who shamelessly picks food out of his silver, metal braces while you’re making small talk with him on your journey across the parking lot in search of your vehicle?

Then, the “ma’am’s” began to come more frequently. I wasn’t ready for them and they really caught me off-guard. It became noticeable when talking to people over the phone during my first full-time job after college. It’s okay, I thought. They don’t realize I’m not a “ma’am” because they can’t see me. That must be it. They think I’m a “ma’am” because I sound older and so mature, professional and helpful. They just assume I’m a “ma’am,” so I can shrug it off and feel secure knowing the truth – that I’m years away from “ma’am-ness.”

As a teen, I always looked older than my real age. And, of course, during those formative years, looking older was not something to be taken lightly – it was life’s mission. It was so flattering at the time to be observed by my parents’ friends (especially the men that I had childhood crushes on) and to hear, “I can’t believe she’s only 14. She could pass for 20!” (Upon reflection, the word “statutory” now quickly comes to mind.) I always smiled coyly, feeling very adult, thinking my “Charlie’s Angels” hairdo looked oh-so foxy, as well as thick eyeliner and shiny roll-on lip gloss (with the subtle yet sexy scent of cheap bubble gum) coated heavily on my very unkissed lips.

Looking older never really played a significant role for me in getting dates. I was always one-half of the “let’s just be good friends” relationships. However, my mature appearance did come in very handy in high school when it came to buying the beer and my quality drink of choice (any wine under five dollars) on Friday and Saturday nights for our typical weekend group activities.

In college, getting older and becoming a “ma’am” was never in the plans. College is, after all, the place where time stands still, where living for the moment and experiencing the frivolous, irresponsible and wonderful events of young adulthood are the primary curriculum. When you’re swapping “the first time you did it” stories, deciding to road trip at 1:00 am to see your roommate’s cute brother, stealing your friend’s towel from the community shower or eating cold Spaghettios out of the can, the last thing on your mind is the possibility of actually getting older. Mortality is just not an issue. Getting to the “Music Listening Room” in the Quad between classes in time to watch “Luke and Laura’s” wedding – now that’s an issue.

The realization of fleeing youth does not happen overnight – it is a gradual process. Each individual may have significant experiences and turning points in their lives to mark their own passing into becoming the next generation. Perhaps it’s the first appearance of gray hair. Or maybe it’s when you stop bouncing $3.00 checks for gas at the 7-Eleven. Or it could be the day when Hostess Twinkies stop being a part of your daily diet (although that doesn’t mean the desire isn’t still there). For me, I can remember the exact minute I realized I was a confirmed “ma’am” – when I was indeed no longer part of the young, hip, bravely defiant “new wave” generation that blazed through the 80’s emulating whatever “cool” role models we had at the time. (I tried to be “punk,” but I just couldn’t really pull it off. I wasn’t willing to go all the way with the look, however, I did manage a lame attempt to “spike” my hair. That hairdresser should have been punished.) The moment of realization wasn’t when sales clerks at department stores or waiters at restaurants called me “ma’am.” They have to call everyone “ma’am” or “sir” – everyone knows it’s part of the unwritten code for those in the service industry. (Having waited tables in college, I know this. You call them “ma’am” or “sir” when they order, then “ass hole” after they leave and you’ve gotten their 10% tip.”

It was a defining moment, really. For many years, even to this day, I take pride in my seemingly well-versed knowledge of music. Perhaps it’s only self-proclaimed expertise and a youthful claim to fame yet worthless skill on the resume, but a high honor among my esteemed group of fellow music lover friends. (Seeing that this “esteemed” group was the same group that used me as their beer-buying underage stooge, risking my arrest and not theirs, perhaps I should question what level “honor” that really is!) Anyway, the moment came in 1992. Reunited with many of my best gal pals since junior high school over a weekend get-together -- we made dinner, drank wine (making vast improvements over the high school beverage selections – jumping to a $10 bottle of wine), sat around and told stories and eventually progressed to a late-night ritual of younger days past: watching “Saturday Night Live.” While there was no surpassing the epic SNL’s of the 70’s (there’s just nothing better than “Bass-o-Matic”), there was always one part of the show we waited for, no matter what decade it was: the musical guests. But, when the introductions were made, it was apparent that I had officially become a “ma’am.” I had no idea who the performing band was! How could this be? I knew no songs. I had no back-up singer moves. I had no recollection of this band, who they were and had not even a trace of a crush on the lead singer and had no musical flashback of where their song could take me, as familiar music always does. I was only 30 years old, how could this happen? Could this be happening to others as well? I was very confused and admittedly a bit sad. All this time, I thought my friends and I had collectively avoided growing up, growing older and growing into a world that suddenly appeared to be approaching the Land of Grown-ups.

To this day, I cringe when called “ma’am.” I want to exclaim to the world, “I’m not a ma’am! Really! I’m really just a 17 year-old-girl somehow trapped in this middle-aged body…it’s really 1979 and I’m Van Halen’s favorite groupie…I secretly wear the coolest clothes, this 10-year-old mini van is not mine and Gwen Stefani wants to be me.” But, the only words that surface are, “Please don’t call me ma’am.” The pubescent bag boy, who looks the same (although the silver, metal braces are now orange and blue) grins and continues to push the grocery cart. He knows I really am a “ma’am” and I know there’s nothing I could say or do to convince him otherwise.

I, however, despite the early stages of hot flashes, have still not embraced my status as a “ma’am.” And, with the announcement in 2007 that Van Halen will tour yet again, I am convinced there is indeed still hope for me. Once a groupie, always a groupie. (Although, I may have to do some research…Is spandex still “in?”)