Last weekend, to celebrate my sister’s birthday, four of us went to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, an oceanside old-fashion amusement park with two roller coasters and a lot of rides with names like “Rock n Roll,” “Cyclone,” “Hurricane,” and “Tornado” (they all seemed to be natural disasters, only, this being the Bay Area, none were called “Earthquake”). We were all nervous that we would be too old for the rides. I had distinct memories of my father being doubled over on a bench at Rocky Point, the rinky dink amusement park in Rhode Island, and I feared that would be my fate. Genetically destined for post-ride nausea.

We had the exact opposite experience. Bethany, Ali, and I rode the CRAZIEST rides, and often, we were the only non-teenagers. The roller coaster threw out my neck a little bit, but for the most part, we found the rides exhilarating. But what was most curious to me was our common reaction. We found the rides bizarrely soothing. We stepped off rides that turned us upside down or simulated handgliding with a common refrain: “Wow, that was so . . . relaxing.” The crazy weird sensation of spinning around at such a fast velocity made us scream and had a way of cleaning out our mental insides in a way that yoga can’t quite accomplish. We wondered, should the amusement park be the new spa? Granted this was not Disney World. There were no lines. But seriously. . . I felt more relaxed (though exhausted) than I have at yoga retreats. If you’re looking for weirdly relaxing thrills, and you live in the Bay Area, go.


What is the appropriate age for baristas, video store clerks, and waitresses to start calling a woman “ma’am”? Please tell me, because I would like to know. I have become semi-obsessed with this question over the last couple of months. It’s possible that people have been calling me “ma’am” for years and I never really noticed, but all of a sudden, this summer when I was on the East Coast I started to feel middle-aged when every service professional addressed me in this (now) most dreaded way. I decided that this was perhaps an East Coast suburbia thing, that in Rhode Island, at age 34, I am presumed to be a mother when I’m out shopping at the grocery store or running errands, and therefore “matronly.” If there’s anything I don’t want to be, it’s “matronly.”

I haven’t been keeping count exactly of what I’m being called, perhaps a good sign, that this self-conscious obsession is waning. I can say unscientifically that since coming home to San Francisco I’ve been called “miss” a couple times, “young lady” a few, but mostly “ma’am.” My friend Sara tried to convince me that being called “ma’am” is a sign of respect, entirely appropriate for someone of my age. I guess at the core I have some resistance to my age, then. But for some reason it’s not bothering me as much lately. I would like to say that it’s because I’m becoming even more supremely self-confident and not vain. I don’t think so. I think it’s something about SF. That I can be “ma’am” and still a kid here, in a way that is not possible in a place where 34 means settled down and with child. Not that I’m opposed to that state, but that’s not where I am right now.

I just want to be clear, too, that I’m not opposed to all language indicating the adult state of a female human being. In fact, I like the word “woman,” and even prefer it to “girl.” I just really don’t want to be “ma’am.” “Ms.”–that would be weird, it’s not going to work as a form of address. “Lady” sounds a little rude and weird. What else is there? Suggestions, ideas? Am I the only one who feels this “ma’am” revulsion?