Invisibility: Who Needs A Magic Cloak When You Can Just Get Old?

Harry Potter's cloak of invisibility looks like fun. Sneaking around, overhearing other people's secrets and  hanging out, what's not to like? But, Harry could become visible any time he wanted. It’s not so much fun when you don't have a choice. 

I know something about being invisible, it's kind of the story of my life.

When I was a kid, I was sick a lot.  Hospitals, transfusions, "procedures," the works. The thing is, when you’re a sick child you aren’t a person. You’re a disease. No one actually talks to you – they talk about you. Or over you. To your parents, to other doctors and  nurses. Not to you, because you’re a kid. And you’re sick.

I remained invisible as I got older because I was ordinary.  I wasn’t beautiful, brilliant or outgoing. I didn’t even act out in a particularly interesting way.  I was just… average.  

There’s almost nothing more invisible than a boring teenage girl. They’re everywhere. Really, you just have to look for them. They're there.

All of this invisibility led me to music. I love music. It spoke to me and helped me through being average, unexciting and unseen.

Later, when I worked in the business, it was an added bonus that I got to hang out with people who were extraordinary. Many were talented, dazzling and mesmerizing. I think I hoped a little, that by simply being in their orbit, some of that shine would rub off on me.

It didn’t. Though due to my invisibility, I have some great stories.  And I heard some spectacular music. So, it was a win-win.

I wore out my welcome in the music industry at the same time the whole business began to implode. So I returned to writing.  

Writing is almost by definition a career in invisibility. It’s our job to observe other people, unnoticed. I was made for this gig.

At the same time writers are our own harshest critics. A lot of what we create never sees daylight and goes directly to the recycle bin leaving no trace.

I used to actually look forward to receiving hate mail; it meant that not only was someone reading my writing; they were reacting to it. I wasn’t invisible after all!

Note: I’ve never gone so far as to resort to click-bait.  I’m not that desperate for affirmation of my existence.

Some writers are highly visible; celebrities in their own right. I’m not talking about the Kardasian types -  they can’t read, much less write. They hire ghostwriters, a breed of contractually defined invisible writers.

But occasionally scribes - through a combination of hard work, good publicists, desire and perfect timing – develop vibrant personas. I’m sure that Gloria Steinem, Stephen King and the late Maya Angelou were never invisible. 

Personally I wouldn’t know JK Rowling or RL Stine if they ran me over with a truck, but I bet they have presence. Lots of it.

'Course, none of the former fall into the most invisible category of all:  the single, middle-aged woman. We are the only creatures in the universe that leave no footprint. Think of us as the penguins of the human world. Interchangeable.

Since I’ve had a lifetime of hiding in the shadows, you’d think this would have made becoming old and unnoticed easier.  It did.

Invisibility should be freeing. You know, like Harry Potter’s cloak.  If I gain a few pounds, I may loathe myself, but since no one else notices, why should I care? Yet I still do. A lot.

And since clothing isn't designed for the middle-aged, while I’m rarely in fashion, it doesn’t matter. Right? It’s not like I go anywhere.

At least not very often. But the last time I did (in the company of a group of older, unseen broads like myself) I noticed that there were few other middle aged women. There were tons of young women, many of them with middle-aged men.  Who looked right through my friends and I.

The media doesn’t help. The only places that middle-aged women appear are in advertisements for incontinence, fibromyalgia (I don’t know what it is, but it looks tragic), and for a myriad of plastic surgeries.

When a TV show or movie portrays someone my age, it's as a character's grandmother. She's always depicted as feeble, clueless and with one foot in the grave.

 It wasn’t long ago that I realized that those ancient regulars  of reruns, “The Golden Girls” are supposed to be middle-aged. As was the Gloria Swanson character in “Sunset Boulevard.” Sigh. 

I don't recognize any of them in myself or my friends.

This doesn’t only hit me and my peers in the ego. That would be bad enough. But adding insult to injury, we’re practically unemployable.

Rarely will someone take a chance on hiring an older woman with experience and proven talent. Unskilled younger women are just so much cheaper. At least in the short term.

But our invisibility might just come in handy. I’m envisioning a sort of “Ocean’s Eleven” gang, except instead of handsome men, it will just be a bunch of my middle-aged female friends pulling off heists around the world.

It would solve our financial woes and no one would ever catch us. They’d never see us. Because we’re invisible. 

Past My Sell-By Date; Single in Los Angeles

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As the ads on Facebook and the sponsored tweets on Twitter keep reminding me, I am a single woman. Because apparently I might have forgotten that fact. They also see the need to tell me that I’m kind of past my sell-by date. I guess they figure at my advanced age, these are the things I’d forget, unlike where I put the TV remote. Which I actually do lose.  All the time.

I’m at that weird age that the world-particularly where I live, in Los Angeles—no longer acknowledges your existence. If you’re a woman and over 45, and especially if you’re well over 45, you’re invisible.

Now sometimes this is handy. I don’t need to put on make-up to go the grocery store, or get gussied up to go to the movies. I work at home, so sometimes I take the ability to dress down to an unpleasant extreme. Sweats have their place but at my age when I go outside into the world it’s not considered cute. People assume I’m a bag lady, which is not really the look I’m going after.

However, I can browse in shops without being attacked by salespeople. They simply don’t see me. Sales staff are trained to look for younger people who are eager to add to their credit card debt. If I was so inclined, I bet I could be an ace shoplifter. No one would notice. They’d think the stuff was just magically disappearing from the shelves.

There is a downside to this. Just trying to get someone to help when my stupid smartphone died was maddening. The last time I needed to replace my phone it took 45 minutes before a Verizon person saw me. Couples ALWAYS get helped at the phone store. They just walk in the building and are swarmed by salespeople pushing tablets and the newest iPhone their way. Not so, the invisible old bat.

Phones aside, most of the time it’s pretty okay to be alone. I have two Great Danes, a Brittany, a cat, some birds and a couple of horses in the backyard, so I’m never really alone. I can have entire conversations and nobody would think it was too odd, unless I start believing that the critters have answered back. And I’m not quite there. Yet.

Occasionally it is a bummer living by myself. When I need to change an overhead light bulb there’s nobody around to hold the chair I perch on, which means I have nearly landed on my butt more than once. When I need pictures hung, I have to ask a friend. But heck, he’s an artist and has better taste than I do anyway.

I did faint once and came to surrounded by dogs, one of whom ran off with my glasses. But at least they noticed I was on the floor. If something serious happened I’m convinced that eventually they would lick my face until I regained consciousness.

Family get togethers suck a bit when you’re an aging single. My immediate relatives get that I’m single and okay, but go a little further out on the tree and it gets dicey. My aunt recently grabbed my arm and said completely earnestly, ‘I know someone who got married recently and they were even older than you! Don’t give up hope.’ I didn’t know what to say to her. So I got another glass of wine.

I did try online dating once. But before you can meet someone, you have to write a scintillating profile with a great photo. If I took terrific pictures, I probably wouldn’t still be single. Writing the bio was tough. I was boring myself; anyone who was interested in that would probably be even duller than I am. I let it go.

Some of my friends have told me they would be afraid to live alone the way I do. Did I mention that I have two Great Danes? One of whom, the big one, doesn’t like strangers? Particularly strange men? Nobody is coming into my yard. Hell, half my friends won’t come in my house unless Murray is locked up. I don’t worry too much about break-ins.

As I’ve gotten older I do appreciate living by myself. I don’t ever need to argue with someone over what to watch on TV, which movie to see, where to eat dinner or, and this is a biggie, what music to play. I admit I have broken up with men because they had horrendous taste in music. I’m glad I did. I’m proud of it. Life is too short to spend any time with someone who sees the finer points of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. 

Murray loves Neil Young, and that’s good enough for me.