Ma'am is a Four Letter Word.

Stephanie Dolgoff has written a memoir entitled My Formerly Hot Life, which apparently chronicles her 'disorienting transition from pretty young thing to "ma'am" ' .  I did not read the book, but I read the mini-interview (minterview?) with the author in People magazine.  Actually, I read the headline of the minterview, which screamed the question "IS THERE LIFE AFTER HOTNESS?"

It brought to mind several incidents in my own life recently, incidents which have made me realize that I am no longer a young girl.  (As if my gray hair and the two children with their constant chorus of "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mommy!" weren't reminder enough.)

This first sign of my impending middle age happened on an otherwise normal day, a day that started off like any other and turned into a day I will never forget.  It's not happy, like my wedding day.  Not momentous, like the day I gave birth to each of my children.  Not tragic, like 9/11.  But still, for me, memorable.  It was the first day someone called me "ma'am".

We were in the mall, the girls and I, down on the lower level near cinnabon.  I don't remember now why we were at the mall; but every trip to the mall either starts out or ends up at cinnabon.  The details are vague but I clearly remember finally realizing that the voice from behind me that was querying "Ma'am?  Excuse me, ma'am?" was talking to me. I. Had Been.  Ma'amed. 

It hit me like a ton of bricks.  Sure, it is polite.  Sure, they were trying to be helpful, pointing out that I had dropped something- Juliette's blankie, I think.  But at what point in my life did I move out of the "Miss" and into the "Ma'am" stage? Upon reflection, I can pinpoint the exact moment:  a little after 10 pm on April 26th, 2003, when that six and a half pound child finally exited my womb and entered the world, I became a bleary eyed, wrinkled clothes and comfortable shoe wearing, large pocketbook toting Ma'am.

Last year another incident drove home this fact.  I was on my way to the university to meet with some of my graduate students.  OK, yes, the fact that these 25-45 year olds call me "professor" is somewhat of a clue that I am no longer a "miss".   It was lunch time so I stopped at a local pizza joint for a slice and a diet coke, and I'm waiting at the counter as they warm it up.  It's early so not too crowded, and there is only one other person in line.  The chef cook starts to make jokes and harass the cashier, and she rolls her eyes and comments  "I knew he was going to get fresh after you walked in through the door" She looks squarely past me to the girl behind me, and then continues "Because whenever a pretty girl comes in he acts up." Then she turns her focus to me and asks "Is that all, Ma'am?"


I think I may have visibly recoiled, and then turned to examine the so called "pretty girl" behind me.  She was pretty.  She was young.  She had a flat tummy, clear eyes, and high heels.  I have a tummy which Juliette describes as "softer then a pillow!", eyes bloodshot with fatigue, and fashionable (no, really!) flats. She was definitely a Miss, and not a Ma'am, while I was clearly not worthy of the chef's cook's notice. I took my slice to go.  By the time I got to the office, it was cold again.

I am a professor, and a scientist, so rather then let these two events decide my status, I decided to take the test.  I passed!  Which means... I failed. 


But did I, really?  Because here is the flip side.  I may be a ma'am...

...but I am also a MOM.