No Sir, please & thank you.
When I was thirteen, my family moved from Hamilton, Ontario to a small city in East Texas. It was a huge culture shock in so many ways. Technically, they spoke the same language, but the twang and the terms were different. Every woman was called ma’am which at first startled my mother and, as her son, me. In our reserved Canadian upbringing the word was considered rude. I’m not all that sure anymore why; sassy was the connotation, I think. That and the notion the word was attributed to older women and what woman wanted to called old, however respectfully?
I have the same feelings about sir. I hate it. In customer service, it’s often used to placate me. Deferential may be the intent but it sounds condescending. I’ll just drop a handful of sirs into this service call and the old geezer will feel he made some impression: ‘You shall respect me…even as you don’t get me what I want.’ Yeah, it’s not just the intent but the age thing that rubs the wrong way. Worse, when sir sprinklings occur over the phone, it’s often preceded with a couple ma’ams. Not only has ma’am spread from the American South, it’s frequently misapplied to my phone voice. Back when I used to answer unknown callers—Does anyone do that anymore? Is it ever anything other than a recording in Chinese? (Is that an only-in-Canada phenomenon?)—the first “ma’am gave me permission to abruptly hang up, the old-school misgendering forgiving my rude response and freeing me of talking my way out of a newspaper subscription, more comprehensive insurance coverage or a donation to the Heart and Stroke Foundation. (Shame on me. I am heartless.)
Not even on my Top 10 of wish
list of celebrity séances.
I know many would say I’m making a big deal over nothing. Sir can be a good thing. Just ask Sir Elton John, Sir Paul McCartney or Sir Winston Churchill (via séance, of course, in the last instance). Setting aside the reality that I have not achieved the sort of notoriety and/or wealth ostensibly worthy of being tapped on the shoulders by the blade of a sword, I shall never achieve nobility, ceremonial or otherwise. While I’m Canadian and, thus, part of the Commonwealth, knighthood has not been bestowed on my countrymen since 1935. (Really, what does my membership get me? Why can’t I quit it at the same time as Netflix, a two-fer that’d make my life no better, no worse?)
I shall never be Sir Gregory. I’ve come to terms with that.
Okay, the promo bit atop the
movie poster may be a tad dated.
As a commoner, being addressed with a noble title offers no status aside from being of a certain age. I’m well aware of how old I am. I don’t flaunt it. I don’t go around trying to distinguish myself by addressing others in turn by referring to them as “young man” or “young lady.” Let’s leave age out of the mix. Ironic, I know, for someone whose blog is Aging Gayly. I’m also cognizant of the fact the title of this blog post dates me. (Haven’t heard of Lulu? The chart-topping song from 1967, “To Sir with Love”? The movie of the same name? Starring Sidney Poitier? All blanks? “Good grief,” a common expression from Charlie Brown, comes to mind. Who? Okay…moving on…)
I’m age-sensitive. I don’t seek to define myself in any way based on age. (Ask me later—much later, I’ll say—when I qualify for senior discounts. 10% of Metamucil on the first Wednesday of the month at Safeway? Score!)
When I was seven or eighteen or twenty-five, I was well aware of my exact age. Sometimes I said it with pride, as if being eighteen meant something. Official adulthood! Bah. Being a Canadian in Texas, I couldn’t even vote.
I often have to pause to recall my current age. I’d like to believe it’s not on account of early-onset Alzheimer’s—at what age is it no longer early?—but due to the fact it’s not important. Years blur. Wasn’t I forty-two just yesterday? (Yes, I have a broad definition of yesterday.)
No makeup...and real
eye brows, too.
We seem to be riding another of those waves where people use their age as an excuse to post selfies. Show us twenty-year-old you, and a pic of yourself at your present age! Or just a current shot with your age!Someone might explain they’re proud of their age. They’re sharing the equivalent to a makeup-free photo of Jamie Lee Curtis or Pamela Anderson. Bold! Courageous! This old coot finds it a little needy among those of us who have no claim to fame. For one, it’s rarely a Saturday morning shot, pre-shower (unless it’s a gay guy looking for a new reason to share a shirtless pic, this time, suggestively, in bed). We don’t post ho-hum pics. We post selfies we think aren’t bad and maybe are, dare we say, pretty good. (Trick photography? God bless filters!)
In the past week, it’s been more of a Twitter guessing game. Without saying your age, tell us the year you were born with a movie or a fad from that time. Do people really respond by Googling Gone with the Wind, Sixteen Candles or Frozen. (Shut up! You were not born the year of Frozen. What are you even doing on Twitter? Why aren’t you outside, having a real life, climbing trees, falling off a bike or spying on Elijah Ford-Leung’s house, hoping he’ll log off Twitter too and step out so you can walk by and say, “Oh…hey. You live here? Cool.”) Call me cynical, a sourpuss or a grumpy old man, but these waves Tell Us Your Age smack of social media neediness, a trumped-up way to earn more likes along with comments such as, “Handsome!”, “You look so much younger!”, and the occasional true but wayward remark, “Wasn’t Michael Schoeffling hot?” (Sorry, I’m a little fixated on Sixteen Candles all of a sudden.)
WHY?!
It should come as no surprise I have never partaken in age selfies. I tell myself it’s not because I fear some troll saying, “Dude. You gotta be way older.” (Block!) I tweet with a healthy paranoia. Haven’t we all heard there are scammers who can access our banking accounts and other data, once knowing our age, our dog’s name and, if we’re gay, adding the number 69 somewhere in the password? (Seriously, when do guys stop finding that number to be so funny, suggestive or, I don’t know, automatically relevant to everything? Another diatribe…) Let’s leave age to government forms and required boxes for creating new online accounts where scrolling way, way down for my year of birth comes with a moment of panic—Does it go back that far? Damn box with a “required” asterisk! What does my date of birth have to do with ordering a pair of jeans anyway?
Okay. I’m sounding old. Apropos, no? Dammit, you got me. I can’t stop you from thinking it but I can beg you not to say it. Call me Gregory. Call me nothing. Call me sir? No siree.
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