Ma'amed

 Today, while I was running some errands, I was "ma'amed," instead of "missed." And the horrible experience got me thinking about all the subtle signs of aging that we never talk about. Like choosing the more comfortable, sensible shoes over the cute strappy pair. Like switching to the moisturizer that's a little better for wrinkles, and a little less hard on breakouts. Like ordering wine at a restaurant and not being asked, for a second, whether you have ID. Like stopping all drinking of any kind by 7 pm each night, to avoid a full night of bathroom trips. 

It's the little things that creep up on us, I think, and suddenly present us with the crazy truth that we are growing older. 

We went out to my parents' a couple of weeks ago for dinner. When we got there, my Dad leaned in and said, "You know, it still just hits me when I think about it. My daughter is coming over with her kids." I laughed, because I knew exactly what he meant. 

Time is a relentless current, speeding away under the surface and pulling us along. I know we can't stop it, nor do I really want to. But, boy, does it sting to be called "Ma'am!"