Today, while I was buying kitty litter and live crickets to feed to the tarantula (yes, as in large furry spider-thing), an extraordinary thing happened to me. The twenty-something checkout guy called me “Miss”. Not “Ma’am”, but “Miss”…twice. I was delighted. I’m certain I blushed. I was tempted to fling my nasty bag of crickets aside, leap over the counter, plant a big smooch on him and ask him to run away with me to some exotic land. Bora Bora, perhaps? I refrained. My husband is thrilled, I’m sure.
Granted, I’m pretty sure this guy was aware that I am well into the “ma’am” stage of my life. Maybe he’s been told by some female relative, that women in their late thirties aren’t ready to be given such a matronly moniker. Hell, I don’t know that we’re ready for that at any age.
The thing is, in my mind, I just graduated from high school. Didn’t I? And then it hits me…my twenty year reunion is this summer. Twenty year reunions only happen to frumpy housewives and paunchy businessmen. I know this, because that’s how they’re portrayed in movies. That’s me now. Oh hell…
Thank you, checkout guy at Petco. In some crazy, roundabout way, you just screwed up my day. Nice.