Somewhere around the age of 30, I went from "miss" to "ma'am" in stores and restaurants. Maybe it was the wrinkles, the suits or the sensible purchasing decisions I was making, but I hated it. It was a massive leap from youth into some downward slope of old age.
It didn’t help that the first time I heard the dreaded “ma’am” I was standing in an Abercrombie & Fitch looking confused, staring through the dim light at an item of clothing, trying to make out if it was a shirt or a skirt.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”