Pants, pants, PANTS!

I’m buying beer and the cashier asks for my I.D. I’m not sure when getting carded became a compliment, but it is. The cashier looks at my I.D. and says:

Thanks hon.

Um, okay. It feels strange for a cashier to call me by such a personal, lovey, pet name, but I’m still flattered he asked for my I.D.

The cashier proceeds to say:

Did you find everything okay in the store ma’am?

No longer flattered about the I.D. He must have checked my I.D. because he thinks I am ancient. I HATE being called ma’am. I live in California, this is NOT The South. I am not old. Well, not that old.

It was almost like he could tell calling me ma’am was bothering me, he said it about a gajillion times in the next 2 minutes while I was waiting for my friend:

Is plastic okay ma’am?

Would you like that in one or two bags ma’am?

Is that ATM or credit ma’am?

Cash back ma’am?

Please press the okay button ma’am.

Here you go ma’am.

Receipt in the bag ma’am?

You have a nice evening ma’am.

Thanks for shopping at Long’s, ma’am.