Ya Madame

The horror! The horror! (Image found on Tumblr)

I turned 26 this month. I am now solidly in "mid-20s" territory, toeing into the "late 20s," and I have a lot of feelings about it. Angst about growing old is a pretty universal sentiment, but I feel like there has been a conspiracy against me as of late to remind me that not only am I no longer a spritely teenager, I don't look like one either.

It happened one evening in June. As I was headed home, I had to pass through an alley in which a soldier and another man were standing. The soldier gestured to his friend to move out of the way and "let the mademoiselle go through." All well and good, until I got to his level, and heard him add: "or is it madame?"

For the first time in my life, I had been madame-d.

And in the following weeks, it seemed like every service driver in Beirut had gotten the memo. The follow-up to "Where are you from?" was no longer "Oh, I have a [family member] who lives in [part of France I've never been to]."

Instead, they asked: "So, are you married?"

I usually answer that question with "that's of no importance to you" or a "why?" accompanied by a raised eyebrow. I taught myself how to say "I'm widowed with three children" in Arabic (assuming that ought to be a conversation stopper), but have yet to use it.

I have a couple of theories on why certain people men seem to find this question relevant and appropriate.

• They want to hit on me and are trying to gauge the competition.
• They have a deadbeat son they're trying to pawn off to some unsuspecting girl so they can finally get him to leave the house.
• They are suckers for romance and hope that I will share sappy stories about how I met my husband during a pottery class/how he proposed with fireworks spelling out our names above the Venice skyline/our tasteful beach wedding in Hawaii.

The fact of the matter is, there comes a time in every woman's life when we tip over from "Miss" to "Mrs," and that change rarely has to do with our marital status.

The distinction between the unmarried mademoiselle and the matronly madame, once her ownership papers have been transferred from her father to her husband, is the type of patriarchal categorization that should be firmly relegated to the annals of history. Unfortunately, the concept of "Ms." has not caught on in the French and, by extension, Lebanese vocabularies.

While the word madame comes off as more "respectable," this insinuates that being a mademoiselle becomes shameful past a certain arbitrarily defined expiration date.

The choice in words therefore reflects presumptions on my perceived romantic availability and respectability based on my (also perceived) age, implying that I should be feeling old and inadequate for not having snagged a husband when I'm only a couple of years away from having to buy anti-wrinkle cream. Just as importantly, I am supposed to feel bad for not caring about settling down.

None of that is really new. A year ago, I was informed by a very drunk guy that I was dangerously close to menopause because I wasn't engaged at 25. Fortunately for him, I wasn't cruel enough to sit him through a lecture on the female reproductive system and how diamond rings aren't preventive medicine against uterus shriveling.

One evening this June, I got into a service driven by a woman, a teenage boy sitting in the back seat. I was really excited to meet one of very few female cab drivers in Beirut, and started asking her a couple of questions in Arabic.

The teenager, upon hearing my accent, asked me where I was from, then immediately enquired if I had a husband. Before I could answer, the driver informed us that she would charge us with a finder's fee if we got married, to which I replied "Take us to a church, now!"

She and I started laughing maniacally as the teen turned beet red.

In conclusion: Mind your own business, unless you're willing to save me from the throes of spinsterhood yourself.