ROBIN WRITES: Invisible
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It’s pretty great being invisible. My disappearance from others’ notice is making my life much easier. And all it took was living long enough.
From the time I became old enough to look beyond my own scrutiny, I learned that society would see me. Not because I was beautiful or worthy of attention. It was just the way life was.
Self-consciousness was learned by a casual mean comment, and self-confidence was buoyed by praise.
My teen years were a minefield of wanting to be seen and dreading the attention. Makeup slathered my face, and I agonized over clothing choices each morning before school.
Was this dress cute enough/too short/ cool? Was my eyeshadow applied like the icons of 60’s fashion? How could I tame my frizzy hair?
I slept on brush curlers (ouch), knowing you had to ‘suffer to be beautiful.’ My reward was wavy hair that gave me a look I hoped would impress my girlfriends and attract boys.
Any flaw in my skin was a crisis. Small blemishes became craters when reflected in the bathroom mirror. I knew everybody would notice; I had to find a way to cover them.
By the time I entered the world outside my self-involved bubble of life, I was ready for the scans and stares of what I thought came from everyone on earth.
My mother pooh-poohed my stringent evaluation of my appearance. Her favorite expression? “That small stain/pimple/smudge will never be seen on a galloping horse,” she’d always say.
She didn’t understand; she’d already become invisible.
So, I walked the tightrope of being noticed and judged by others for decades. First, I wobbled in the unpredictable sway of the emotional need to be accepted. Later, I balanced my desire for attention with the sensibility of a woman who knows nobody is perfect, and opinions are mercurial.
I put on makeup every morning and wore clothes that were clean and in style. I didn’t try to look younger than I was, but I wanted to look as good as I could through the years.
As I grew older, things changed. When I stepped outside my house and into the world, I still elicited occasional smiles and conversation with the people around me, but it happened less often than before.
Now, I have shrunk into the background of life along with my generation of ‘Seniors.’
My invisibility makes me part of the group of men and women who’ve lost the notice of the world and gained the sweet comfort of just being.
Now, if I decide to run out without makeup, no one gazes at me in disapproval. Frankly, nobody looks at me at all. If I wear Mom jeans that are baggy at the bottom and faded, it doesn’t matter. To the world, my silhouette has become a cardboard cutout that clothes hang on.
Hair? I fluff it up with my hands, spread strands over thinning spots, and pretend it looks fine. It does, I guess. I’m the only one who even knows I have hair atop my head.
I finally realize that my mother was right. Nobody is looking at this old gray mare as she gallops toward the home stretch. I’m just blessed to still be on the track.
I can’t say I don’t enjoy the occasional positive notice I get from those around me when I dress up and try to look nice. But I know those appraisals don’t matter, anyway.
When I look in the mirror, I still see me. And I like who I’ve become. I will wrap my cloak of invisibility around me each day, set off with a smile only I know is there, and continue my race in content self-acceptance.
If you DO happen to notice me in the bubble of myself, we can share a secret smile.
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].
