The other day, as I made my way to exit the recreation center on campus, a couple of papers fluttered from my purse. Two girls, clearly in college, yelled, “Ma’am! Ma’am! Did you drop something?”

At first, I did not even hear them simply because my ears are not tuned through experience to the word they used: Ma’am.  I am twenty-four (okay, about one month shy of twenty-five) and I think I still look the part.  No, I do not have a stick insect figure, but my curves do not exactly place me in the mom-genre.  Taking the innocent insult in stride, I thanked them and retook the sheet of paper.

It made me feel slightly older that I thanked them out loud for returning my voter registration sheet.  Because, you know, I am a responsible, address-updating ma’am.


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