Being Ma'amed

"You'll appreciate it when you're older."

I always returned a low growl when I heard this response from everyone and their mother, and their mother's mother, when I would complain about being mistaken about my age.  I've always had a youthful appearance.  Carded at bars?  Uh, yeah.  And rated -R movies.  When I was in high school, hostesses at restaurants would glance at my family before seating us and ask if we needed a children's menu.  Some day, I would be told, that will be a compliment.  Like, in the land of never, I would think.  Living in my own apartment at age 23, some guy delivering a package told me he thought I was 14. At 23, it was still irritating, even offensive.  I highly doubted the day would come when that would be nice.

But somewhere along the line, it happened.  I look my age.  It wasn't at some ceremonial age like 25 or 29 or 30.  I just slid into it.  This past year, I've noticed that every person in retail - let's stretch that to every person in public- calls me "ma'am."  I mean, everyone.  I can't remember the last time I've been called "miss."  It takes a while for people to get my attention; I'm not used to this label.  "Ma'am, here's your card back.  Ma'am?  Ma'am?"  Oh, they're talking to me.  Sigh. Maybe I'll move to the south where everyone called you "honey." 

I found a couple of wrinkles last year, and was whining about them to my sister.  She saw where I was referencing, and I half-expected her to say, "What?  Wrinkles?  You're being ridiculous." Instead, she said, "Oh, there?"  but then followed up with, "I thought you meant the ones over there," and pointed out another area.  I've been noted to inventory my health issues, and when I get to "my arthritic knees," I always have to say this phrase in an old-lady voice. 

Today I turned 34.  I'm not bothered by it.  Really, I'm not.  But I won't be convincing you any easier if you knew that I celebrated by getting bright pink and purple hair extensions.

Take that, 34.