My waiter left both the table and me in shock. Granted, before we left the house to head on over to the ramen bar, I told my husband I felt a little matrony. I was wearing a midi, short-sleeve orange, patchwork dress, oval brown sunglasses, a gold chained belt to accentuate my waist and disguise my fat as voluptuous curves and a bob, curled under—very Anna Wintouresque.

It’s the kind of outfit that looked better before I put it on.

Regardless, after the week I had, getting dolled up in any capacity was a win. And chicken wonton ramen sounded delicious. Plus, it was finally warm. Florida’s been having the worst cold snap in decades and my pale legs have been vying for the sun for weeks!

My husband and I eat out so rarely anymore that when we do, I get a little bit of imposter syndrome. It doesn’t help that we tend to look like fish out of water, not speaking to one another and often just glancing off into the distance. It’s not that we don’t talk, but rather, we’ve talked so much already that we run out of things to say. Still, I appreciate the company.

We made quips about our ramen. He spilled pork juice on his t-shirt, ever the man-child. I added too much hot sauce to my broth, ever the ignorant to my pallet. And then, the waiter came to collect my bowl. “I’ll take this for you, ma’am.”

MA’AM?

My husband shot me a smile and after the waiter walked away with our dishes, I looked at him and mouthed, “Ma’am?” We laughed and I said, “You know, to him, I am a ma’am—look at me!”

Blame it on the dress.
Or the oval-shaped sunglasses.
But mainly on the gray hairs sprinkling the top of my head like raindrops. Or the one giant streak framing the right-hand side of my face. Very Cruella. Very Deville.

Throughout coffee and an impromptu stop at Goodwill to look around and window shop (definitely not in an attempt to avoid going home where the reality of a cat with cancer awaited us), I kept bringing it up. “Ma’am,” I’d say while strolling up and down the aisles.

I don’t get ma’am too often. In fact, the only notable time I remember was when I was checking out at the BX when I lived overseas in Guam. The cashier was older than me, but called me ma’am out of a sign of respect. I was nineteen, maybe 20, and it made an impression all the way back then. Fast forward 15 years later and the bruise is just as black, just as blue, and just as annoying.

When we returned home, my husband said, “I have a lot of jokes I want to say, but you seem to be having a tough time with this so I won’t say any of them.” Well, that makes me sound like a peach!

“Oh, you can say them,” I countered, fishing through my closet for a sweater. “I’m not really bothered by what he said because it makes me feel old,” I explained. And that’s true. Logic tells me I’m not old. Sure, to my 19-year-old waiter, 35 is old. Thirty-five is ancient! I couldn’t dream of how much time had to go by in order to become 35.

But here I am, on the cusp of it, and…what do I have to show for it? Had you asked me at any point in my life, I would have imagined myself in the throes of motherhood by my mid-thirties. I also would have been a millionaire, but, let’s just LOL to keep from crying, right?

As I started to reflect on his comments, these were the thoughts flooding me. “What have I accomplished over the past 10 years aside from just trying to survive long enough to greet the following day?” My husband flashed as much of a sympathetic look as one could while on the toilet.

I walked out and looked into the mirror. I did look older. My hair is streaked gray. My eyes are tired. I aged out of youth seemingly overnight.

Don’t get me wrong—I consider aging to be a privilege. I don’t believe in Botox or fillers. I would never get plastic surgery to look younger or thinner. I’m okay aging naturally and with grace. Plus, when your mom dies at 61, your viewpoint on life and aging changes. I’ll give anything to surpass her because was 61 old? Fuck no. If anything, it was too damn young.

But the remark was still a sting—a harsh reminder of how much time I dedicated to just getting by. How much time I spent simply dealing with all of this grief. My life has changed significantly since losing my parents and despite all the therapy, the journaling, the support groups and the new zip codes, it’s taking a while to attach new wings to my shoulder blades. I will fly.

Eventually.

Until then, I’m just going to have to get used to being called ma’am. If only they understood that, behind closed doors, I don’t even feel like my life took flight.