Don’t call me Ma’am


When you look in the mirror who do you see? As I get older I have started to realize that I have a trick mirror which is my mind. You see when I look at myself I see the person I was when I was 20 something. Sure I see a zit or a wrinkle too, or even a stray hair that got left out in the last colour session by a box of Loreal’s “Ultra Blond Tresses” guaranteed to cover the grey.

But my point is this: At what age do we actually think of ourselves as truly grown up? Is there a different digit for everyone or am I stuck in some weird timewarp in my brian that refuses to accept the reality of my years? I once read that you are as old as you feel…well, aside from some random aches and pains in weird places, I feel like I am in my 20’s! Honestly!

The reason I bring this up is because recently I have noticed people are calling me Ma’am. I know that this is supposed to be a sign of respect, especially for your elders, but I’m really not sure that I am ready to graduate to this new level of thinking.

You see, my husband has a top level job on the ship and so suddenly, I am not just some faceless guest, but I am someone important as the wife of someone important. But do they even know my name or have I become so and so’s wife and that holds more clout than just Leah? And is it silly for me to want to hold onto the notion that I am simply Leah? I am not sure if I am fighting against the idea that I am a shadow of my former self or if I am just resisting the inevitable fact that I am getting older and people will start to call me Ma’am and I should just get used to it.

I think the reason I don’t mind living with my mother in law all that much is that if you continue to live with a parent figure then you will always be considered in some ways to be the “child”. I’m sure that this blog is in some part my way of expressing the rebellious child within me but without crossing the barriers of being hurtful or disrespectful.

Perhaps this is why I have been so drawn to the Italian culture and I continue to tolerate the bureaucratic system, the outrageous cost of living and the language barrier. I must have a secret desire to want to relive my childhood with someone who is just as zany as my own mother but also willing to nurture the child within me for a bit longer than I was willing to allow my own mother to do.

(My mom is a wild child of the 60’s who had kids too young and never truly had her own childhood. She now lives on a Caribbean island with her Rasta boyfriend and she has never been happier-I could write a whole new Blog about her, but who has that kind of time?)

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About lmarmstrong66

I'm a blogger, painter, writer, singer. For the love of all things in nature and creativity.
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One Response to Don’t call me Ma’am

  1. Rickardo says:

    Ma’m is better than “Madamme”, unless there’s a lot of leather, maple syrup and rubber bands involved….!
    Ther would be lots of cash too $$$$$!

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