Welcome to Ma'am Hood

The other day as I was buying groceries, I happened to strike up a cordial conversation with the bag boy. I wasn't flirting, he was practically a kid, but I was being witty. And charming. At least I thought so. It was one of those good days when you feel good and look good. And then it happened. "Would you like help out ma'am?"

Ma'am?! I about choked on my triple shot mocha. When did I become a ma'am? For that matter, what gave it away? I did not have any of my children with me and I'd even done my face and hair before this trip! Was it the comfortable footwear? My husband calls them "duck shoes", these leather clog-like things that easily slip on the foot. Was it the fact that while my jeans did have a flare to the bottom, they weren't hanging off my hips? Was it the fact that I wasn't advertising my panty choice by having a thong hanging out the back?

As I pushed my cart to the car, I caught my reflection in the large window of an SUV. My red hair was glinting in the sunlight, my cheeks were rosy, and I looked damn good. For 30. To a bag boy of 19 I was definitely ma'am. I was someone's mother. I was *gasp* old. But damn it, I didn't FEEL old. Well, except right at that very moment but that was all the bag boys fault! Sure I had kids, which qualified me as someone's mother, but it didn't mean I was a ma'am did it? Ma'am was someone who was old, well older than I was at least. Someone who had many years under her belt along with kids and who may or may not need some pharmaceutical help to keep her body running smoothly.

When I got home, and had a few moments to stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, the realization hit me. Somewhere between 20 and 30 I had become "ma'am." Make-up was no longer "acne fighting" it was "wrinkle reducing." Hair color was no longer chosen for shock value but for coverage of stubborn grays. Those, by the way, didn't show up until right before my 30th birthday as if to say, "Welcome to ma'am-hood here are your complimentary gray hairs." Undergarment choices were no longer based on how thin or how transparent but does it lift and separate or can it hide cellulite?

I had to admit to myself that it wasn't as if I became older overnight and it wasn't as if being 30 was a curse. I thankfully was not one of those people who felt they had to be younger. Most of my life had been spent trying to catch up to my siblings who range from 8 to 10 years older, so when I hit 20 I felt like I was already 30. Until I was really 30. (And they're 40 and suddenly I don't want to catch up to them.)

At 30 years of age, I am appropriate with my role-models. I don't model my clothing choices after Lindsay Lohan. I would rather be seen as a Rene Russo or Julianne Moore as opposed to Hillary Duff or, um, well Lindsay Lohan. I think Pierce Brosnan and Aidan Quinn are hot and Ashton Kutcher is a kid. Even if he is only 5 years younger than I.I do have my perspectives in order.

I just don't recall when it happened. When did I go from someone a 20 yr old would date to someone a 20 yr old would ask permission from? And why don't I have all the answers by now? Because as I grew up I was reassured by the fact that when I was a grown-up I would know everything! I would never be undecided and I would never, ever be afraid. Because adults didn't have fears. At least not unreasonable ones that involved not knowing everything, because they had it all figured out!

Maybe that comes when you're 40…