The More Things Change...actually, nothing has changed

I've been thinking a lot about a newspaper article I read last week. It was in the sports section of one of the major daily newspapers here. The sports section is not usually the part I read first, or ever. On this day, it was the only section left on the empty train seat where I sat down.

Surrounded by the usual flurry of stories about professional sports teams was a story about high school basketball. Specifically, a high school basketball coach. Girl's high school basketball.

The coach, a 34-year veteran with an impressive record of wins, was dismissed. Not fired, amidst a season of drama. But dismissed, with no more than a wave of a hand and leave your whistle on my desk.

You can probably guess the key facts of the story. The coach is a woman who is not 34 years old but has 34 years of experience. And did I mention that under her coaching, for 34 years, the team has been a consistent force.

The newspaper article, obliged to discuss the "official" reason for the coach's dismissal, quoted the principal as saying that some of the players were not having a "positive experience". Read "fun". Sounds to me like Coach yelled at someone. Maybe Coach made someone sit on the bench because they missed practice. Or because they're a lousy player.

A person's whole career, a lifetime of work, slapped away with no due process, no appeal, no explanation. Am I over-reacting? Well, let's see. What happens if you re-populate this story with men? In fact, the reporter did cite a similar case with a male coach at another school. Similar? The only similarity is that both coaches were fired. The male coach's tenure at his school was only three years. In my math book three years doesn't quite measure up to 34 years.

The reporter attributed this insult to whining parents and a cowardly school administration. I can't shake the certainty that if Coach was 34 years old and looked as if she should be coaching the cheer squad, there would have been a different outcome.

The Invisible Woman

Back in the days when I ruled the world, sidewalk crouching at my feet and all, I took great care with my appearance before I left the house. Precisely arranging and spraying each strand of hair; scrutinizing my outfit from every angle in the full length mirror; sometimes removing every shred of makeup and starting over if one element went awry. Purses matched shoes (Stacy and Clinton be damned!) Skirts never peeped below the coat hem. I went to the hairdresser every three weeks for a color touch-up. My non-existent blond eyebrows were professionally waxed. Since this was back in the day, curling irons had not been invented. But thanks to Patty Duke, it was practically chic to run around in hair rollers covered by a scarf. But not for me. My hair rollers never left my bedroom.

Appearances ran my life so all eyes that fell upon me would light up with approval and admiration.

Yeah, so. I guess they did. But as the years stumbled on, the inexorable press of time pressed me for time. Once a necessity, hours in the stylist's chair became a luxury I couldn't afford. I fell into bed too tired to make time for rollers. Up in the morning too harried for peaceful contemplation with the mirror.

My standards slipped. I decided to think of it as the personal development phase of my life. Working on the inside instead of the outside.

But things even up. They hit equilibrium. Finally I've achieved a comfortable level of "I care, but not to excess". Alas, it seems to be too late.

Because now I'm invisible.

I've passed from dress-for-success to doesn't-matter. If eyes should accidentally fall upon me, they would quickly slide away. I limped about for weeks with a leg injury. Apparently co-workers assumed it was just the old lady shuffle. Not until I cancelled a meeting in favor of an orthopedist appointment did awareness dawn.

I've hit that age, and it is about age, when nobody sees you. "No one remembers your name, when you're strange," sang The Doors. How about new lyrics, guys? No one remembers your name when you're aged.

Hmmm. Maybe that's why older women often become loud and demanding. It's an attempt to be noticed. We need to cultivate outrageous-ness just to be acknowledged. I give you the Golden Girls; each one of them chewing a slice of outrageous pie along with the scenery.

Just consider this: if you don't see me now, how will you know if the mortician did a good job? y'think?

How I Came to Be Here

I have been an avid blog reader for several months. This 180^o turn-around occurred after years of thinking an "online diary" must be the height of vanity. The few blogs I stumbled across from time to time certainly reinforced that. Invariaibly written by single young men they all went something like, "today my friends came over and we went out for pizza". Who cares?

Then I discovered the political blogs. Provocative, sometimes compelling. They made me think when they weren't too far over my head. What a great vehicle, I marvelled, for people to express opinions and create dialogue. Political commentary is no longer limited to the people who are paid to have opinions. Everyone who cares can share: a new century version of the soapbox in the park.

True to its name, the web of interlinking sites finally led me to the women's blogs. Serving up a buffet of shopping advice, recipes, anecdotes and philosophy, this weaving of web logs feels most like a support group without boundaries.

Ah, but there is a boundary.

I noticed this network is made up of women in their 30's more or less,
with children
though sometimes not,
married, but sometimes not,
who have lives that feel busy and complicated.

As I lurked and read part of me wanted to be a part of this bright, witty and brave community but, well,
their issues are not really my issues.
I remember those issues.
But my life is not about that anymore.

So I've staked out this far corner to shout and snark about the things that trigger my rant switch. Ageing and ageism. On being redundant. Is there life past the expiration date?

At the very least, perhaps an example of what not to do. Y'think?

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