My husband had duty this past weekend and I took him dinner on Saturday night. I always take him dinner when he’s on duty and we have a picnic, on the duty desk, with the Sergeant of the Guard and the Duty Driver. It’s romantic, in a military relationship kind of way.
We went out to eat the following day and somehow, over lunch at the Olive Garden, the talk turned to how old we have become. Really, it turned to how old I am, but it makes me feel better to include my husband, because as I tell him, he’s old and has accepted it, it’s still new to me. I told him that it always makes me feel so old when the Duty Driver calls me “Ma’am.” Have a good night, Ma’am. Thanks for dinner, Ma’am. Here, have my seat, Ma’am.
I’m only going to be twenty-five in June, stop calling me Ma’am! I’m not a freaking Ma’am, I’m Staff Sergeant’s hot, YOUNGER wife!
I graduated high school in 2004. It feels like it was just yesterday. I counted at lunch and I graduated high school SEVEN years ago! S-E-V-E-N.
As I was drowning my sorrow in calamari and bread sticks, my husband, who always.says.the.right.thing, looks at me and says, do you really want to feel old? Um, no, but let’s see where this is going…
“We were talking about Obama last night and I jokingly told Sgt. Doesn’t.Call.Me.Ma’am. that Obama’s his President and we have him to thank for [whatever inappropriate thing they were discussing and probably isn’t HUN appropriate]. He said, ‘Hell No.’ and we both looked at PFC Stop.Freaking.Calling.Me.Ma’am. and he said, ‘SSgt., I couldn’t even vote for the guy, he can’t be my President.'”
Did ya’ll just hear my fork hit the plate?
My husband then tried to make me feel better, “Oh, don’t worry, he’s eighteen now.”
You’ve got to be kidding me, right? How in the world did I get to be a Ma’am? More importantly, how do I make it stop?