Being Invisible

A woman of my age has often entered a new stage in her life. Her children are all in school or perhaps married off or at college. She looks at herself in the mirror and sees that middle age has crept upon her and very soon she will be alone with nothing to do. All. Day. Long. And middle age doesn't look as old as it did when her mom was in her forties. And she's not quite ready to pick up the knitting needles and create shawls for her grandchildren so she decides to get a job. But the job market stinks so she decides to finish that college degree she never intended to finish because she only went to college to find a husband.


Such is the case of Tiffany, my friend from high school. We met up again in the middle age section of Costco (produce) and she told me how her twins are married and her oldest son is in college and how she will graduate in April with her M.S.W. 

It's what women of my age do. 

So how is it going back to school after twenty years, I ask.


This is where our lives and experience intersect. Neither of us know when it happened but we found we have become invisible - no longer a person of substance. 

When I was in graduate school, there was Candace, Anne, Mike, Marina and RaeAnn. We were the younger crowd that studied together. Jeri happened to be 42 but we recognized a young soul and forgot she was old.

Then there were the peripheral students. I know this because there were twelve people accepted into the program. I vaguely remember their faces but I don't remember their names. One woman put her degree on hold because she discovered she was pregnant. We laughed with her because she was 41 years old. Then there was the old and balding guy who was going through his second divorce and the eccentric lady nobody wanted to sit near because she passed gas and we could barely contain ourselves due to fits of laughter. Besides those facts, I couldn't pick them out of crowd. They were old. They were in the 40s. They were invisible.

As this revelation dawned on Tiffany and me we realized we weren't complaining. It is somehow so liberating. I used to dread putting gas(oline) in the car because I was sure to get cat calls or some guy in a really big truck (overcompensating) hit on me. 

No more. About a year ago I went to church in shoes that didn't match. I only noticed it because they sounded different with each step I took. I glanced down and gambled that nobody would notice. I was right.


What would have mortified me and would surely have been prosecuted by the social faux pas attorneys is largely ignored. I can wear socks with sandals (I don't) or forget my bra (I do) and it doesn't matter. I wonder if it ever did.


When I take my 15 year old out in public, she will tell me she's just not ready and run to do whatever she has to do and then she comes out looking exactly the same to me. I can't help but wonder if the frizzy permed hair and the curled permed hair looked the same to my mother when I was a teenager. If so, how many bad haircuts did I needlessly cry over? How many hours did I spend trying to match the shade of pink or purple EXACTLY so my shirt and pinstripe pants went together? How many people cared or remember that I had a scratch on my face for my sophomore class pictures so I didn't buy them that year (courtesy of my baby cousin, Paul, the doctor).


There are times I wish I were more visible like when I'm suffering and I need someone to provide comfort. But those are moments that are not so evident; no telltale signs of different shades of fuchsia or a flat chest to set off the attention alarms.


Instead we recognize the lines on each others' faces in the produce section of Costco and recognize that our experience has exalted us to a different realm. We are women of substance.