And Me without my Pretty Dress

Yesterday I swung by Chevron to put some petrol in the big red bus. After saking its substantial thirst, the attendant hands me my receipt and says, "Thank you, ma'am."

I think to myself, "I think that dude just called me ma'am! Nah, he must've said man." (beat) "That's gotta hurt," he says. "Nope," I respond, "not at all."

And, you know, I was telling the complete truth. It didn't bother me in the slightest. I'm driving home thinking how odd it is that he called me a "ma'am" (not even a "chick" or "hottie") and I don't mind. I think it was just so silly that I couldn't see any reason to take umbrage.

It had to be a slip of the tongue. One, I don't look anything at all like a "ma'am"; I've more got the "sir" thing going on. Beta, I hadn't done anything to this guy to prompt the kindergarten level insult of Purposefully Switched Gender. III, I was a customer.

Now, I'm not saying that I've never been addressed with the wrong gender before. I went to kindergarten and, when you've got a nice back-porch, mistakes are bound to happen in dark places. No, what made this so surreal was the complete lack of impact it had on me. It's kind of odd.

Could I actually be losing my prodigious ego?

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