Thank you, Ma'am...

Can I help you, Ma'am?

Will that be everything for you, Ma'am?

Thank you, Ma'am, have a great day!

Okay, so somewhere in my 35th year of life, I have become a Ma'am. By the very employees of a service industry I know only too well. One that paid my way through University and taught me the value of a dollar and the joy of being able to spend it. By gas station attendants, waitresses, and store clerks. By pimple-faced, greasy haired teenagers slinging burgers and peddling lattes.

Well, okay, that's a bit mean-spirited. I mean, after all, these kids are not all that much younger than I am...

So the Ma'am, then... what is up with that?

What happened to the "Can I help you, miss?" How did I go from that, to "Ma'am"?

Is it the wedding ring, no longer shiny and new that has etched a permanent groove on my left hand?

Is it the baby fat trapped around my mid-section that I acquired from three exhuberant, robust babies? (Well, alright, three years later can I really continue to blame it on the babies?)

Is it the odd stray hair, stiff and silver, springing up from the top of my head? (That I can continue to blame on the babies...)

Is it the family friendly mini-van I drive?

What about the bags under my eyes from almost seven years of ignoring my need for sleep (again, the babies...)?

Or perhaps is the Mom-sized handbag that has become my staple fashion accessory?

Really, please tell me, what exactly compells you to call me Ma'am??? Have you any idea how old that makes me feel? In my day I could tell the difference between a woman in her prime, and a woman dangerously skirting the precipice of middle-age. You kids today don't have a clue!

Ma'am...

Well, I never!