Ma’ammaries

Today I went down to our local community college and turned in a transcript request form in order to determine which classes will transfer, and which ones are incredibly useless in any and all areas of my personal or professional life. (Oh, HAI BILLIARDS “P.E.” CREDIT!)

As an adult student who will be surrounded by people I technically could have parented, I’m understandably a little self conscious about my triumphant return to the wonderful world of education.

Up until I turned in the form, everything was going just swell. I looked around me and convinced myself “I don’t look *that* much older than everyone else!” I mean, I’m obviously no spring chicken at this stage in the game, but I’m not exactly screaming at school children whilst angrily waving a cane to get off my lawn, either.  I looked up at the line of available clerks, and purposely selected an amiable young man to hand in my required paperwork.

Imagine my horror when the young man takes my documents, looks up, smiles, and instead of addressing me with my preferred formality of “smoking hot youthful piece of ass I’ll be thinking about later”, he calls me the most hateful, derogatory term anyone could ever use to describe a woman:  “ma’am.”

Ma’am.

MA’AM!

Stunned, I retreated from the building into my vehicle. I sat there for a moment wondering when I had crossed that line into ma’amdom. Frantically texting friends and relaying the horrors of the day on Facebook, I briefly considered marching back in there, flashing my tits and screaming “MA’AM?? DO THESE LOOK LIKE MA’AM BOOBS TO YOU? YOU SHOULD KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BECAUSE YOU LOOK LIKE YOU WERE JUST WEANED FROM A SET!” Whippersnapper.

Things just got worse from there as I flipped down my mirror visor. Far removed from the soft, dim glow of my bathroom lighting, I examined myself thoroughly in the devil’s mistress otherwise known as “natural light.”

Holy shit. That little fucker was right.

I am a ma’am. A ma’am I am. I do not want to be a ma’am. I do not want that on my cans. I do not want it on my face, I do not want ma’am any place!

Sulking, I drove back home to the safe recesses of the home I keep as dimly lit as a seedy strip club. Spent a few minutes adjusting my boobs to circa 2003 levels and digging around for the Oil of Olay anti aging serum like a heroin addict who misplaced their syringe. I then thought about all the husband upgrading I need to get on if I’m going to be able to collect all that sweet, sweet alimony to pay for my extensive plastic surgery.

Then I remembered something very important: I don’t care.

I’m not sure why I had such a visceral reaction to the “ma’am”. I’m not in denial about it. I’m getting older, which is a privilege not afforded to everyone. This is the same sort of bullshit I wasted my youth on worrying about how fat I was instead of just enjoying the moment. And just as I look back at my “fat” pictures from my 20s wondering when I was ever so slim, I will hopefully live long enough to one day look back on my 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s pictures wondering when I was ever so young.

Until then, I’ll keep my ma’ammaries tucked safely away, safe from traumatizing the 20 year old community college clerks who offend old ladies with respectful language.

Ho’s In My Downline

I am experiencing what Web MD tells me is a “Mid-Life Crisis.”  Now, Web MD has been wrong before, but this is the first self-diagnosis that doesn’t have me dying of some rare tropical disease or malignant cancer…so instead of running to my doctor in a self-induced fit of hysteria, I decided to research this common malady.

Here is what I discovered:

The midlife crisis typically begins between the ages of 35-50.  Granted I am only 24 years and 130 months old, but it seems pretty feasible.

Apparently, the mid-life crisis manifests itself a bit differently in the fairer sex, who often focus on superficial things like appearance, or becoming oversexed and chasing after men 20 years their junior. (First of all, men 20 years younger than me are not men…and secondly, I have WAY too many daddy issues for THAT nonsense). More often than not, however, it has more to do with the “MY CHILDREN ARE SELF SUFFICIENT AND DON’T NEED ME ANYMORE AND I’VE SACRIFICED ALL MY HOPES AND DREAMS AND OMG WHO THE FUCK AM I?” while lamenting you’re not Adriana Lima on the outside, Marilyn Vos Savant on the inside, or Oprah Winfrey in the bank account.

Also key is the crippling inability to make decisions.

I recently DID make a rather sudden decision to turn in my notice at work and go back to school.  I mean, with my children being  8.5 and 15.5, they don’t need me every waking second anymore.  Its only recently set in that I have freedom that I haven’t had since I was a freshly minted high school grad.

I got some surprisingly negative feedback from a host of sources I would not have expected.  Even though I have yet to make any final decisions, I have to admit “chasing my dreams” seems a lot less appealing when people seem so keen to tear them down.  It’s like someone takes every insecurity you ever had, waves it in your face like it’s Dirk Diggler’s penis and screams at you in a foreign language that you’re pretty sure is terrorist in origin but it COULD be that it’s plain English and you’re just too stupid to understand it.   I could probably have left out the bit about Dirk Diggler’s penis because that part actually sounds pretty awesome.

So I’ve had a lot of thinking to do, and I know I have to make a decision or continued to be paralyzed. I think I’ve hit upon something big.  Something wonderful.  Something with flexible hours. Something that combines my talents with my interests while earning a great income.

I’ve decided to become a hooker.

I am taking appointments now and will probably be starting a referral program, so tell your friends! You’re going to want to get in on the ground floor of this great opportunity before I get the herps. Although I’m getting a tramp stamp that says “No Glove, No Love” flanked by dolphins and/or butterflies…I can’t guarantee I’ll be Chlamydia free for long, so act now! Is there a bachelor degree in escorting, because it definitely sounds like something I would pay for.  Major will be Hooking with a minor in Exploiting Wealthy Chubby Chasers.  And of course I’ll have a rewards program, along with special discounts when you bundle services called “Packages for your package”

I feel like escorting is entry level to my ultimate career plan….a promotion to a Madame position is what I ultimately see myself doing.  I understand that hooking is not a career.  Once I get the herps I figure I get myself a great little multi-level marketing scheme going.  Get a bunch of ho’s in my downline, they sign up ho’s under them. Hold a few ho conferences to get them all riled up, excited new “business owners”.  I figure incentives can be like “Get 20 girls to sign up under you, earn a year’s worth of antibiotics” etc.   I’m excited about this. I’ve seen my competition on Craigslist.  I’ll undercut their pricing if I have to in order get my foot/vagina in the door.

I honestly have no idea how I’m not a multi-millionaire already.

….someone should probably alert Web MD someone diagnosed themselves correctly using their information so they can high five each other and weep copiously while muttering “We did it, Norm…after all these years…we finally did it.”