There are certain turning points most women never forget. One of these is the first time someone calls you Ma’am.
It all started with a simple expression: Ma’am.
I was sitting in a restaurant.
“More coffee, Ma’am?” the waiter asked. It was downhill from there.
I was 29 years old and had just been called Ma’am. I was mortified. I didn’t believe it could get any worse.
But it has. (And I’m not counting the time I was called ‘Sir’ a few years later when I boarded a bus in Vancouver’s legendary West End. Ironically, it was one of the rare occasions that I was actually wearing a dress and heels.)
It rankled, for instance, when I was 36 and expecting my first child and the doctors pronounced me to be of Advanced Maternal Age. When our second child came along two years later I was prepared: Yes, yes, I know — I’m an even older, Older Mother.
Every year or so our family dentist finds himself a new business partner, another up and coming (wet behind the ears, my father would say) young doc who, as luck would have it, is assigned to me. Inevitably, he x-rays my teeth, gives me a lecture about my ancient dental work and apprises me of the fact that my molars are crammed with huge mercury fillings that predate Christ himself. He then points out that there’s a ‘Crown Watch’ on just about every damn tooth in my head — as if I need reminding.
I’ve grown accustomed to being called Ma’am (happily, I haven’t been called ‘Sir’ again). It’s just a greeting, a salutation, a sign of respect. Besides, it doesn’t matter how I’m perceived, as long as I am content within. Yeah, right.
In spite of my attempts to remain optimistic, and young at heart, however, recent events have convinced me that I am now rapidly approaching my golden years. You can’t stop a train, my husband says.
I was shopping for shoes the other day and had just tried on some snazzy red leather sandals and was seriously mulling them over when I mentioned to the Twenty-Something guy helping me that I also needed a pair of shoes for work.
I told him that I walk and stand a lot when I’m at work and gestured hopefully at a shelf of crossover hikers with nifty toggles and those bungee laces that look like garter snakes. So what does he do? He bypasses all of them, and all of the cool looking, outback shoes that have reinforced toes and sexy names like Ridge Rider, Sienna Climber and Durango. He goes down a different aisle altogether and hoists up a pair of… what fresh hell is this… White leather, sensible, crepe bottom shoes… you know the kind.
Now, I had just tried on a pair of jazzy, au courant sandals. My toes were nicely polished with hot pink nail enamel. I was wearing my usual weekend clothes, a pair of Levis and t-shirt. I was carrying a shopping bag from the Gap. My hair isn’t grey, not yet, anyway. It isn’t permed, or dyed, or coiffed, for that matter. In fact, it has a life of its own: some good days, some bad. That day it was… let’s say, tousled. And even though in certain social circles my hair might be considered dated, I like to think it’s more Charlie’s Angels than Golden Girls.
So what was it? What on earth made him show me that particular shoe?
This was a shoe that not even a nurse would be caught dead in, a shoe so ugly that it was a travesty. It was a shoe so bereft of style, that if it could talk it would be crying, begging to be put out of its misery; a shoe so pitiful that if it had hands it would reach around and strangle itself with its own laces.
I couldn’t help it. Instead of just saying no thanks, and moving on, I had to gently tell him that he was out of line. If the time ever came that I would even remotely consider shoving my pedicure, my cornless — thankyouverymuch — toes, into those over structured, arch buttressing clodhoppers, it would be Game Over.
“Ha, ha,” he laughed, “Ha, ha,” like he was kidding.
Now I was confused. Was I being punked?
“Ha, ha.”
I just couldn’t read the guy.
What was he thinking? Was he thinking? What would give him the idea that a woman like me: a Gap bag toting, midlife crisis, trapped in amber, stretch Levis and shag hair, ‘Fuchsia Pop’ by Revlon, kind of woman, would even be remotely interested in wearing a shoe like that? Was he on commission? What, exactly, was he on?
I left the store without buying the red sandals. My next stop was the Food Court. I went straight to A&W and ordered a Teen Burger.
I was in the bank a few days later and the teller, another Twenty-Something guy, had seen me clutching a government cheque (our monthly Child Benefit cheque) while I waited in the line up.
He was already talking to me as I approached the counter. If that’s a pension cheque (pension cheque!!), he was saying, I was out of luck if I wanted to cash it, because they were mailed out too early this month… and if I look at the date…. blah, blah, blah.
But I had stopped listening at “Pension Cheque.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” I said to him.
He was obviously embarrassed.
I put the cheque on the counter in front of him.
“Um, Child Benefit…”
He squirmed a little.
Uncomfortable silence…
“You don’t really think I look 65, do you?” I pressed.
He refused to look up.
Evidently, he’d been getting the gears from Old Age Pensioners all day. He looked like he was about to burst into tears, poor guy. Customer service ain’t no picnic, that’s for sure. My sense of fair play prevailed and I quickly turned the subject back to business.
Ahh, it’s tough to be young… I remember it well.
Illustration Credit
“Copenhague” m-c @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.
I moved from the north to the south in my twenties, and I had children, and although I was in my twenties my status denoted that I be called Maam – and now that I am nearing 50, I can finally tolerate it. lol
I was asked for an aarp card a few months ago…but carded for alcohol so that made up for it.
Great article!
Thanks for reading!
First off, Margaret, you are a gifted writer. You should have a column; liven up the rigid newspapers.
What’s weird is I’m about to turn 37 and I am starting to think it’s not me that is older than God or backwards in thought, but those of the ubiquitous wannabe youth wandering the streets in throngs these days. Have you noticed it?
With every new condo popping up in downtown, there is an attached spa and botox ‘doctor’ set up inside, and the streets gets more and more crowded. But who is crowding these streets, trying still to boast the beauty of antiques and history? To me, it looks like Los Angeles is migrating here, perhaps looking for streets and skies that have not yet been blackened by greed, gossip and traffic. But give it time.
Anyway, you made me realize a few things. Youth loves itself. It’s afraid of aging. Anyone who is happy, painting their toenails and proudly showing their personal fashion tastes – no matter wat what age – frightens them. I think it’s quite possible that all these attempts to escape inevitable aging has nothing to do with a fear of death, but more to do with a fear of truth. People who insist on buying expensive cars, condos, clothes, makeup, surgical procedures, phones, computers, whatever, what are they adorning? Why so obsessed with adornment? Is there nothing inside that does the adorning for them…like I would guess from your writing it does for you? Does the authentic beauty and confidence that comes with age threaten artificial beauty to the point that it needs to be ‘ma’am’ed into submission?
I’m showing more greys than before. Every day. There are other things happening to my body that as a once physically obsessed athlete, I am not comfortable with. Men son’t even look at me anymore. Like I’ve hot some ‘too old’ category. And it’s ridiculous that it has affected me to the point of acting like I’m much older than I am. And the funny thing is, it’s not age that sucks – it’s the ideas we have about it. Like how, unlike the Native Amercians and many other cultures, we toss our elderly citizens into ‘old folks homes’. I must digress.
I loved the quote, “I’ve grown accustomed to being called Ma’am (happily, I haven’t been called ‘Sir’ again). It’s just a greeting, a salutation, a sign of respect. Besides, it doesn’t matter how I’m perceived, as long as I am content within. Yeah, right.”
So honest. ‘Content within. Yeah right.’ haha! I love your sarcasm and truthful acknowledgement that even for someone who meditates daily, adjusting and adapting to a world which, outside the ‘ohm shanti shanti’s’, in large part seems to look down on everything that lingers on the periphery of what’s socially acceptable. This includes aging. Wow. Western society is wack.
I’m going to stop writing now, for fear of getting hot under my aging collar…I might poop in my depends.
It’s not easy being a role model in a world of that takes our role out of it.
Wow! Thanks for your great comments, Mary. You’ve raised a lot of interesting points. Like you, I have noticed quite an influx of anti-aging clinics in town lately, and a lot of (what we call around our house) ‘youth cream’ ads. I agree, to some extent youth is narcissistic…. it’s all part of the journey, I guess!
You said it!!
My daughters big complaint right now is that people think she’s 14 and ask if she wants a childs ticket at the movies … she’s almost 17. I laugh and tell her to be glad she looks younger ….
“Wait till you get called M’aam!!” I say ….. but of course she just rolls her eyes and says MOM!!!
That’s ok .. I’ve told her what’s coming …. facial hair …. grey roots, and you end up looking or acting like your mother … or even worse your dad!
Thanks, Heather. An older friend of mine disliked being called Sir so much that he’d respond, ” Please don’t call me ‘Sir!’ That’s my father’s name.”
M
Thanks – that is my biggest grievance – when a waiter or salesperson alls me maam I kind of sidestep away from the situation. I try to realize they’re just being polite but a training manual should include the wordsl; PLEASE DO NOT CALL ME MAAAAM! On the other side of things, some of my male friends don’t like the Sir treatment – even though they’re balding or grey or grey and balding. Glad to see I’m not the only ‘maam’ that feels that way!!!!
It’s so cool that people of all ages are reading LAAH. Thanks for your comment, I’m reassured!
Margaret
I am 18 years old, and have worked as both a waitress and as a retail associate for a while now. I call absolutely everyone “ma’am” and “sir,” even people my age and younger. I never thought anyone would take such offense. I’ve yet to have a problem, but please keep in mind everyone calling you “ma’am” does not mean to make you feel old.
I have yet to be called Miss, but here’s another one: just last week I was called ‘Dear’ by one of the appraisers at the Antiques Road Show. Then he gave me a ‘Speed Pass’ so I could circumvent the line up in case I had any “questions.” Gak.
I remember my first ma’am. I also remember the miss I got this summer at 43 years young. And no tip involved so I took it and ran!!!
Too easy to relate to! 🙂
Hi Anne and Janet!
Many thanks for your feedback.
I’m sure it’s equally odd when the reverse happens, though, in my case apparently, I’ve always looked ‘mature’ for my age!
M
Fun to read and remember.
My first Ma’am happened in my early twenties and I replied in a stupid southern accent- “He done called me Ma’am”.
Curiously I was completely insulted when I was asked for I.D. in my mid twenties, just because I was wearing braces on my teeth. I was a late bloomer. Now, I would like to know what that feels like :0)
I look forward to reading more of your articles. Thanks!
Hilarious!
Thanks, so much, Shannon and Kerry! I had fun writing it, and, hey, whatcha gonna do?!!
M
I LOVE this article! You had me laughing so hard I was crying. I much prefer the French Madam, which has a certain naughty sophistication. Even Senora is better than the nasal sound of ma’am. But what else can they call us? When a young man calls me Miss, I have to smirk because I know he is trying to get a bigger tip … So, we are stuck with Ma’am. But if we have to wear it, let’s wear it well, as you are!
hey kerry slavens how hard did u laugh at her post?
Oh you had me smiling, laughing and relating. Thanks for a great post!