The Invisible Woman: A journey from youth to invisibility and beyond

I’ve turned invisible – which definitely has its advantages. Case in point – I wear pyjamas for almost the whole of winter – which is pretty much the next best thing to full-on hibernation. As a result of this recently acquired superpower, I’m also privy to some interesting conversations. Standing on the playground waiting for my son to emerge from school, I once heard an alarming discussion between several eighth-graders clearly not deterred by my virtually unnoticeable presence.

Another time, while running errands at my local shopping mall, I caught a whiff of an awesome exchange happening smack dab behind me. Several teen boys were conspiring about how they were going to lose their respective virginities later on that evening. At first, I figured I had somehow stumbled upon the set of a John Hughes’ film – but nope. Just another run-of-the-mill encounter at the Oakville Place foodcourt.

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Yet my foray toward invisibility is not without its contradictions. While on the one hand it is truly liberating to be able to flit to and fro with nary a glance, on the other it can be lonely at times.

Even to my own children – I often factor in as some sort of omnipresent non-entity. Unless they’re hungry, in need of a ride or money or clean clothes – I may as well be another unremarkable piece of furniture in their lives. One they can perfect their eye rolls on or use as their sarcasm target.

As a teenager, I took my youth for granted. It got me noticed. Boys would sometimes (though not always) turn their heads when I entered a room. Other girls would glance over – perhaps (though not always) paying attention to my every move. My presence was readily acknowledged almost everywhere I ventured. 

In theory I knew that one day I’d get old. I just didn’t truly believe it would happen . . . to me. That youth would skedaddle and looks would diminish; hair would turn grey and then blonde; skin would crinkle and crease; body would plump and sag. That my presence, my being, my essence – would flicker . . . then dim.

My thirties hit, then pregnancy and the attention I was missing seemingly returned. Strangers would approach me, talk to me, open doors for me. Then a new baby – and again people I didn’t know would glance over, smile, start a conversation.

When the light went out, I wasn’t prepared for the darkness.

I won’t lie: once in a blue moon, it’s nice to be noticed by someone you don’t already know; who you don’t already have some sort of relationship with. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not craving a #metoo moment here – just one where someone you don’t necessarily know appreciates you for what you have to offer – your point of view, your comments, your outfit, your allure.

At a McDonalds a couple of years ago – the kids were tearing up the play place as I sat on the safe and better-smelling side of the glass sucking back Diet Coke. A father sitting next to me struck up a conversation and as we chatted about our mutual children, I noticed him glance down at my ring finger. Then I realized – maybe just maybe I was being hit on. With my messy pony-tail and hoodie with the smear of ketchup across the front. Say what you will about feminism and girl power (I’m a firm believer in both) but that one little encounter buoyed me for weeks.

More recently, I was dancing up a storm at an 80s club with my husband and some friends. I was taking a much-needed break and took a seat at our table when a man of a non-descript age – he could’ve been anywhere between 50 and 70 – approached me and asked if I’d like to dance. He wasn’t particularly attractive to me and I wasn’t exactly in the mood to re-hit the dance floor but I figured “What the hell?”  Maybe I could make my husband jealous – a feat I hadn’t managed to pull off in some time. But as the two of us heaved around the sticky dance floor to the likes of Boy George – my husband was the furthest thing from jealous. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the show.

The song ended, I shook this man’s incredibly sweaty hand and thanked him for the dance. And when I sat back down at the table, my sister-in-law leaned over and whispered in my ear: “This is what you can attract now.” I laughed – despite the fact that truer words have never before been spoken.

Two months ago, I was preparing for a much-anticipated night out with a group of fellow moms. To kick off my celebratory mood, I had my makeup professionally done just for the occasion. My teen daughter took one look at my newly glamorous face and remarked: “Nice. But why do you need to look good? You’re old.” Note to self: teach this child how to properly craft a compliment. But that was a lesson for another day. At this point in time, I was looking forward to the night out and nothing would get me down – not even a well-buffered insult from an impertinent adolescent.

Near the end of the evening – sometime after a spirited jig to Take On Me but before my queasy stomach got the better of me, a young buck – I dare say in his late 20s – approached me at the bar and said: “Why hello, Santa.” I was wearing a Santa’s hat, you see. I smiled, took my drink and moved back to my group of friends.

Later that night, I proudly proclaimed to my husband: “I got hit on tonight.” Of course, he was eager for the particulars. And so after relating in vivid detail the story of the three-word pickup line, my husband smirked. “So what you’re saying is that a guy talked to you?”

Hey – I’m a middle-aged, predominately invisible woman. I’ll take what I can get.

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