I’m an old lady. And no, at 23 years old I’m not jumping to crazy conclusions or anything (unless you want to chalk this up to senility or something.) I’ve considered this senility scenario from every angle and it seems like it’s very possible as it explains why I keep losing my keys and forgetting to pay rent.
Anyway, senility-induced or not, the fact remains, I’m on the wrong side of my youth. My golden years are behind me and I might as well start prepping myself for early bird breakfasts.
My rapid approach to the AARP set has been confirmed by multiple, unbiased sources. For instance, the U.S. Postal Service. Granted the U.S. Postal Service didn’t technically call me out for ancient relic I am but by delivering a certain message, they pretty much went along with the “Ashley is an old fogey” consensus. Now I’m not going to kill the messenger or anything because for one that would be super cliche and also, I kinda like our mailman. I am, however, going to be slightly annoyed at the mailman for a little bit until I forget why I was annoyed with him in the first place.
Which brings me to the message in question: the message that turned me from a perfectly pleasant young lady into a crotchety old woman who is now tempted to yell at children to get off her lawn, or at least that little patch of dirt outside of the apartment.
Now to be fair it wasn’t the mailman’s fault. Truly, most of the blame or really, all of the blame, belongs to my college alumni foundation who decided now was the time to address letters to me as Mrs. Husband’s Wife. Now I don’t want to be picky or anything but I’m pretty sure my parents didn’t name me Jeff or Mrs. Jeff. I’m at least 70 percent sure my first name’s Ashley not Mrs. (Granted, my mom has been known to throw random girl’s names at me and expect me to respond to them. As such I will respond to any name my mother ever thought of naming me: Justine, Nicole, Nikki and Sam.) Until recently though, I’ve never been forced to respond to Mrs. Jeff because I wasn’t a Mrs. then.
Frankly, I miss being a Miss. I don’t mind being married or anything or my husband and junk. I however, not fan of my new forms of address. Lately, I’ve been “Ma’am-ed” all over the place. What happened to the “Miss” people? Really, guy sacking the groceries at the supermarket, “Ma’am”?
I hate “Ma’am.” I’d much prefer to be addressed as “Hey, You” or “Stupid Woman Over There” than “Ma’am.” If I could pick one word to be banned from the English language forever it would be “Ma’am.” Come on Merriam-Webster, we could make this happen.
Ma’am conquers up imagines of a gray-haired women in floral print dresses who remember things like the Great Depression and when soda cost a nickel. I’m not one of those women, yet. However, I’m pretty sure all of this “Ma’am” nonsense is giving me wrinkles. Either that, or the little line beside my mouth is some sort of lazy dimple. Either way, I don’t like it.
It seems like just the other day I was in my prime. On an almost daily basis I was mistaken for a child, now people keep asking me how many children I have, not even if I have children, how many children. Sheesh. Talk about pressure. Two years ago I was leaving an event with my little sister (Big Brothers/Big Sisters as I would never actually have a biological sister who was that cool) when the sponsor asked us if we needed a ride or if we were waiting for our moms. I was 21. Now, two years later I’m supposedly supposed to be super mom.
Oh well. People are weird. However, if avoid grocery-bagging boys at the supermarket and letters from my alumni foundation I just might be able to dodge a “Ma’am” overload. If not, I guess I can just resign myself to an early old age. After all, I’m well prepped. Years of watching The Golden Girls has prepared me for this very moment. And who knows, now that I’m practically their peer I might like the show even more. (Pfft…if that’s possible.)