Say Ma’am One More Time

I have been yes ma’am’d more in the last week than I ever have been in my life. Have I passed the threshold from indiscernible years into tellable old age? God forbid…

I took my car for an oil change on my day off and my favorite mechanic answered every one of my questions with yes or no ma’am. I know it was polite, but what the hell? I thought it was a fluke of his gentlemanly character, even though there seemed to be more ma’am’s thrown in there than usual, even for Texas.

But later the same day I took my sons car to the tire place to get new tires and the same thing happened there… Yes ma’am this, and no ma’am that. Seriously?

Oh my god. I am not a fan. It makes me feel so old! I know its done out of respect but it is 100% guaranteed to make me feel like I am middle aged. Which I suppose I am. I have grown children. (insert eye roll here)

I was just remarking to my son that I still have a hard time believing he is 20, despite that I can see him and know that he is an adult. I still feel like I am young. I feel like I have so much life to live. 

I also feel like I am in a sort of suspended animation, aging but not developing forward. I have considered getting my hair dyed since it seems that stress at work is really bringing out the grey, and just when it had abated thanks to the stay at home mandate.

Tragic. 

I don’t feel old. Is there a disparity in how I see myself versus how others perceive my relative age? Ugh. I can only imagine that the fella at the mechanics is roughly my age, maybe even younger. It’s hard to tell with him, but I know he’s got children of some age (younger than mine since he pays them a visit and they apparently live with the mother).

Not that I think there is anything there or even the possibility of anything, but OMG I’d like to pretend that there is a possibility for something. 

I suppose I should just be happy they are being polite. It’s a weird enough climate to be out an about in as it is. Living in this section of suburbia knowing that there are protests and unrest in other parts of DFW, it is surreal that it is just business as pandemic usual.

I should also be grateful that it is politeness I am met with considering what a strange communication dance we have to perform when we can only see each other’s eyes. I wonder if this is what it is like to wear a Berka? In the sense that there is this sense of disconnection with my facial features. Like it doesn’t really matter what my mouth is doing as long as my eyes reveal only what I want the public to perceive.

It must be my hair. They can’t see anything else, and all my friends say my eyes are ageless (thanks for good genes), but my hair is a telltale marker of the ravages of old age. It isn’t even gray that my hair has become. It is bold strands of white hair. I don’t even get the benefit of color range or shades of grey. I have 50 shades of white going on throughout my scalp. All over.

I thought about letting it go grey naturally, but after the day I had, I don’t think that life is for me. I also thought about embracing the grey (white) and aggressively coloring my hair all grey like some women have done. It looks good when colored correctly.

But this look is a commitment of future salon visits and color care. The me on the inside wants low maintenance hair. Nothing that requires a lot of upkeep or needs blow drying. My hair is black and curly. Not lovely curls that remain in place, but a wild mane of Crazy Spice Mel B curly hair. I don’t have the personality to support such a head of hair. It feels terribly unfair to have been burdened with such exciting hair, when I mostly feel unexciting most of the time.

Regardless of how unexciting I feel, calling me ma’am like I’m some elderly matron is uncalled for. I don’t care how Southern they happen to be, I don’t enjoy the feeling it invokes in me.