Don't "Ma'am" Me

All the waiter has to do is call me "Miss" instead of "Ma'am" and I'm good to go.

Yes, even if the service he provides stinks.  

Likewise, call me “Ma’am” and nothing’s getting past me.  Slow service will be reflected in his tip, no doubt. 

“Miss" tickles me pink; “Ma’am,” needless to say, doesn't.     

Perhaps “Ma’am” was at one time a term of respect, to show deference for older folk, in which case I could decide I've earned it and even appreciate it.

But I don't; instead, I cringe when I hear it.  I want to say, "So I look like your mom, do I, young man?" but since I realize his mom could look far younger than I do, I bite my tongue.         

I'd rather be "Miss" to feel like I’m 14 again, or 24, or 34. Heck, even 44 sounds good. 

"Ma’am" makes me feel, well, the opposite, like I’m closer to 84 than I am 24. Yikes, I am.

It should be reserved for our moms, no exceptions.

Card me too and I’d double the tip.