Don't Call me Ma'am

Forgot your skirt, love?

I did it again.  Despite my protestations that I am getting too old for nights out, last night I ventured forth to the ‘Pot & Barrel’ to meet The Pant, an old school chum, for a drink (singular).

To avoid hypothermia we were forced to take a perch near a cheering outdoor log fire.  Unfortunately this covetable spot was amidst a group of school children.  I know they were school children because when one of the man-children, in a low white V-neck T-shirt (despite the Arctic conditions) accidentally elbowed me in the head he apologized thus:

Man-child:  [Spins around] Oooh, sorry [catches my gaze, my crows feet squinting up at 

                   him]  Ma’am.

The Pant: Did you just call her ‘Ma’am’? [Looks upon our youngster with incredulity]

Man-child: Yes, Ma’am.

The Pant: Did you just call me ‘Ma’am’? [Look of complete disgust on visage]

Man-child: Sorry, Ma’am.  I’m at a school that instills it in us.

The Pant: NEVER.  I repeat NEVER call a lady Ma’am in a bar, or when you are out drinking.

Man-child: I’m not old enough to drink.  I don’t drink, Ma’am.

And that was the tone for the evening.  The Pant and I sat about in pure wonderment at the fashions sported by the youth.  As she noted it would seem that it’s okay if you don’t have any clean jeans at home, simply pull on your stockings, sans skirt, and come out anyway.  One delightful young lady had a pair of leopard print stockings/leggings so tight that she was suffering from reverse camel-toe.  Her bottom appeared to be eating her leggings.  What made this more unnerving was despite her svelte physique her entire leg/rear end undulated spasmodically with every step.  Clearly she had never partaken of any muscle building exercise in her young life.  Worse still is she had paired the undulating leopard print leggings with a sort-of anaconda print very tight, ripped, T-shirt and leatherette jacket.  It was quite something to behold.

The young, I discovered, are like Martians, completely foreign to me.  During the course of the evening I attempted to give one youngster some advise.  He kept prattling on about sex, in the manner of the virginal/very inexperienced.  Growing tired of his tirade, I informed him that believe it our not there will come a time in his life when sex is not the most important thing.  He looked at me like I was an insane person.  At this point The Pant wandered over.  He looked at her, then back to me and said “Dude, your friend,” gestures to me, “just tried to give me a life lesson.  She is craaaaa-aaazy.”  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I have married friends, who have not had sex in years, but it felt a bit like shooting Bambi and I couldn’t do it.

 I very am grateful that I am 30 rather than a spotty, vacant teenager, but Don’t. Call. Me. Ma’am.