Don’t call me Ma’am.

In the storied history of ridiculousness, no term produces an eye roll from deep within my bones more than the word “ma’am.” Rhymes with spam, makes me feel like I resemble a yam and leaves me wanting to shout, “Goddamn,” ma’am is a full-fledged assault on my psyche.

Push me off a cliff, gently “nudge” me over the cruise ship railing as I pause to sip my bone-dry martini, leave me to die in the wet gutter—just, please, don’t call me ma’am. This request is, of course, wishful thinking. Try as I might, there is no possible way to prevent people from calling me ma’am.

When did ma’am take over? I was “miss” at one point, a time not that far off when everyone was still hyped on HBO* and kale was vying for popularity (I guess we know how that ended). Are my newly minted crow’s feet suddenly giving me away and forcing me into permanent exile on the Isle of Ma’am—a place with the backdrop of ancient Lesbos and the social practices of Gone With the Wind?

Yes, ma’am. And those babies are not “newly minted.”

Ma’am makes me feel like my grandmother. It’s a term that seems tailor-made to be reserved for only those of a revered age and social standing. Ma’am has a formality, an undercurrent of proper, polite etiquette that I simply can’t participate in on a daily basis (instead, I participate in other ridiculous activities like decorative napkin folding and dog treat alphabetizing). I can’t take myself seriously enough for ma’am, I don’t want to take myself seriously enough for ma’am. Accepting ma’am is like handing over my ridiculousness and saying, “I’m ready to go straight. Please, Sir, do you have any Peter Pan collar shirts I can wear underneath this pearl button cardigan?”

My grandmother is smiling down on me at the mere suggestion of that. Now she’s trying to hand me a lipstick.

My old friend Merriam Webster defines ma’am as a term that is, “used to politely speak to a woman who you do not know.” Okay, I know I am being a bit of a b-i-t-c-h (if you spell it, you haven’t cursed) about being treated politely, something I was always taught is of high importance, but Merriam goes on to say ma’am is, “used to speak to the Queen or to a woman of high rank in the police or military.” Therein lies my issue. The suggestion of “rank,” the idea that I, as customer or patron, am somehow of a higher echelon than you, as purveyor or provider of goods and services, is ridiculous. We all have roles in society, but there is no better, and there is certainly no worse amongst those that we deal with day in and day out. Do you not deserve to be treated with more respect than I given the fact that you did all of the nitty-gritty leg work involved in getting this item here for me to procure with almost no effort at all?

Yes, ma’am.

Ma’am has an old-timey feel. It’s not just that it sounds like it may be for a woman of a mature age, but it also sounds like ma’am should be living on a plantation next door to Scarlett O’Hara. As ma’am complains endlessly about Scarlett’s behavior, her maid nods her head and says, “Yes, ma’am.” There’s a classicism that comes with ma’am that I object to. There’s a stuck-in-the-past connotation that I dislike—me of the “Hey, babe,” generation—preferring instead terms with a formality that is non-existent. “Sweetie,” “Honey,” “Dear,” even “girl” are all terms legions of women dislike as they can be diminutive in nature and reflect the fact that the subject isn’t being taken seriously, but I prefer all of them to ma’am.

Anything but ma’am.

When I get to heaven and my grandmother lists all the things she’s disliked about my existence, this commentary is sure to be one of them. I will smile, obsessively hugging her while listening to her talk, knowing she is right about most things and far off on others. As they come to take my bags and escort me to my private wing complete with sun room and topiary garden views, I’ll turn to her and say, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” she’ll respond.

Even in death, people… even in death.