No Ma'am!

Tousling my hair. Puckering my lips. Admiring my make up. Checking out how great my round little bottom looked in my Guess jeans.

Yeah, I had moments.

Guys would wink (they may have had something in their eyes, but go with me on this one, k?). Their hellos disguised suggestions of something more. Their eyes loosely hid lustful thoughts as their gaze traced the curves of my body.

I would smile, clearly pleased with myself (trust me, this was a rarity, but a rarity I embraced wholeheartedly).

How could I not?

A twenty-something hot chick.

Like I said. I had my moments.

And then there was yesterday.

A little mascara (I still remember how to wield a wand) and smidgen of lip gloss. A spritz or two through my very sensible mom do (I begged my stylist for a non-mom mom do . . . I guess that meant to give me a style that wavers between 80s talk show host and CSPAN economist). I slipped on my jeans (grateful for the extra elastic around the waste). Pulled on a body hugging long-sleeved top and sweater. Slipped on my comfy, yet very trendy, shoes. I packed J in the car and off we went. No former Guess-jeans hotty, but good enough.

We visited the hubs at a very hip and happening place.

The bowling alley.

As I followed my little adventurer through the maze of racks, chairs, tables and bowling bags, my eyes firmly fixed on his little legs, I nearly stumbled into a young boy.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said. I cringed as I laughed at our near collision. No worries. Though, that ma'am thing . . . whatever. He's barely a teen. His parents have taught him well.

J, my slightly bruised ego and I were off again.

My throat parched, I was in desperate need of some fluids. As I saw those golden arches, the one place with the perfect mix of Coke syrup and carbonation, I knew I had to stop.

As I pulled up to pay for my drink (YES, I said NO to "would you like anything else with that" I swear), the young man at window 1 replied, "Thank you, ma'am" as he handed me my change. Ugh. Really?

Young man at window 2 handed me my food and a "Have a good evening, ma'am." Seriously. Why can't they just leave off the last part? I mean, "thank you" and "have a good evening," is plenty. My mood deflating, I knew it was desperate that I go for some therapy.

So, J and I headed to Kohl's where I proceeded to scour the clearance racks. I headed to the checkout with my finds.

I saw a man at the first check-out. There was only one person in his line.

I saw an older woman at the next check-out. There were about four in her line.

What a dilemma.

I checked with my ego.

It whimpered.

I headed to the line being manned by one of my own kind. I wasn't taking any chances.

She greeted J with a barrage of compliments as we moved up to the counter.

I grinned. I sighed. Much, much better.

I looked into her knowing eyes.

She gets it, I thought to myself.

I swiped my debit card, signed my name and grabbed my bag . . .

She bid farewell to J and to me she said in her sweet sing-song voice, "Have a good night, ma'am."

Kill. Me. Now.

*I clearly know I live in denial of the fact that I am a ma'am. But I like denial. It is warm, pretty and they serve really, really good food and free Bellinis. Oh, and all the mirrors make me look like a supermodel. And that's pretty cool . . .