Quarterlife Diaries: ‘I don't know when it happened, but suddenly I'm a lady’

In Quarterlife Diaries, I take you weekly through all the things I, as a nearly 30-year-old, encounter. Mainly to vent my heart, but also to give everyone who is in the Quarterlife boat with me a little encouragement. You are definitely not alone. This week: getting older.

Of course, I am not old at all, I know that, but I have been reminded all too often lately that I am indeed getting older. Don't get me wrong, I consider it a blessing to be able to grow older and I really look forward to everything that 30+ has in store for me, but let's just say that I am at least a bit in the adjustment phase of getting older.

That comes down to a few things. Before I became an editor at Amayzine (the best job ever), I worked in secondary education (the other best job ever). In secondary education, it is customary to address teachers by their last name, something I used to find very normal to do, but which I had never experienced for myself. So when I was consistently addressed as ‘Ms. Rietmulder‘ at the beginning of my career in education, I often didn't even look up. Ms. Rietmulder, that's my mother, I'm just Sophie. Yet, I quickly found out that the students found it very logical to address me as ’Ms.‘. I was probably already ancient in their eyes. That theory was confirmed when they collectively signed me up for the show Lang Leve de Liefde, because still being single at the ripe age of 28: that just couldn't be.

This phenomenon has spread rapidly. I was recently in the supermarket when a cart with new products was in the way, one that I used to often stand around bored unpacking. I was just about to walk around it when a way too polite stock clerk pulled the cart aside and uttered a heartbreaking ‘sorry ma'am’. His mother probably just raised him well, but the fact that I was addressed as ‘ma'am’ for the first time, outside of work, hit me hard. I'm not a ma'am at all, snot-nose, I thought. Until I realized that the last time I was struggling with such carts was already fourteen years ago and that is something only ma'ams can say.

As a cherry on top, I also tried to pay for a bottle of wine at the self-checkout that day. One that was of course the cheapest in the flyer. That habit will never change, even now that I apparently am a ma'am. Still, I felt a small rush of adrenaline coursing through my body when it appeared on the screen that an age check was needed. Maybe slight PTSD from when I tried to smuggle a bottle of Smirnoff Ice at 15, or maybe it was a glimmer of hope that the supermarket employee would doubt whether I was old enough. However, that dream quickly shattered when a cashier halfway through her walk towards me said to herself: ‘Oh, I see it already. 30.’ and immediately turned around. Sorry?! I wanted to shout: ‘I'm 29... TWENTY-NINE! Look, on the driver's license I already had ready! Just quickly, please!’

Of course, I held myself back and quietly slinked away, knowing that I would soon enjoy the unchecked bottle of wine on the couch, that a meal from Thuisbezorgd was on the way, and that I would spend the rest of the evening under my soft blanket with a bad movie on. That is one advantage of being a ma'am: whether it comes from not experiencing stress anymore about whether you can take your bottle of drink with you or that you now have a lovely home to cocoon in, your Friday nights are guaranteed to be a lot more relaxing.