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?