Disappearing – Day Sixty Two

Disappearing

Over the past several days I’ve had a recurring experience, albeit in different areas of my life and involving completely different people and encounters.

But I was struck today by the thread between all of these situations and I didn’t like the feeling.

Of course, it could just be unique circumstances adding up to me feeling that there’s a pattern here. Or, I really am disappearing.

It’s not only been creepy. It’s been infuriating.

A Pattern in Our Society

And yeah, I’ve read articles about how women who reach age 50 or so tend to just start blending into the wallpaper of other people’s awareness. Most of those articles seem to emphasize invisibility in the context of men and being noticed by or considered attractive to men. And while I’m not making it my life’s mission to actively become a hag, I’d also say I’m assiduously not into primping. Never was. Never will be. And lucky for me, I guess, Karl knows that too.

But there is evidence that the invisibility arises within other contexts as well. Contexts in which it’s patently stupid and an obvious loss to both society in general and in whatever industry or profession women work throughout their lives. Everyone loses when women are rendered irrelevant and unseen, muted and ignored, simply because they’re no longer of child bearing age.

And I have to say, I never thought I’d experience this attitude being directed toward me. I guess I thought I was immune because I’ve never cared one way or another about ‘looks,’ beyond, you know, basic personal hygiene and wearing eclectic clothes.

And then there’s the hair

And I haven’t changed in that regard. I’ve also not given one shit about going gray. Indeed, I love my gray hair – and the thought of putting poison on my head and letting it seep into my scalp, so close to my precious gray matter, makes me recoil in organic horror.  (Why would I go out of my way to avoid ingesting gmos, pesticides, and other stuff that’s bad for you and then deliberately let poison soak into my scalp?) Because I’m afraid to be my natural self?

Dumb. (For me.)

Yes, I’ve watched people close to me feel compelled to color their hair by the realities of our obnoxiously youth-worshipping society. You know – so they won’t become invisible. Because ‘old’ equates, for women, to ‘invisible.’ And I understand their fear in the corporate or professional world, but it makes me wonder: how do we change that culture if we continue to acquiesce to it?

Which is another reason why I refuse to do it.

But all of this is superficial. All of this is yackety yack about the packaging, and making the product (me – or us) look like something it is not.

Why? The Perennial Question

And I guess that’s what has always been at the foundation of my refusal to consider that I might actually be disappearing. I’m only starting to hit my stride! And my confidence in myself and in what I ‘do’ has been earned. By years of doing. Of experiencing. Of enduring.

Why the hell should I feel compelled to gussy myself up like some 30 year old when I’ve been there already? I’ve raised three kids (with Karl), headed my own law office, worked for a major feminist legal advocacy organization, made dinner every night, and managed to get to most soccer games, musicals, plays, and track meets. Doing all that wore me the hell out.

And I know, I know, it’s a tired old trope, but damn – men (who have not in the main had to ‘do it all’ in order to think they were bad-ass, but only had to ‘do their job’) can become gray and a little thicker around the waist and they are considered distinguished. Not me. Not us. If we don’t color our hair and Goddess-forbid do even more heinous things to our bodies, we become dismissible. We’ve ‘let ourselves go.’ We need to look in the mirror.

The Crux of This Post

Up to now, this post is not addressing what I initially set out to write about. Because what I experienced this week was an invisibility of a different kind.

It may have been related to how I look. But I don’t think that was it.

It was simple disrespect. It was being blown off. Why? I have no idea.

Not only did I feel like I was becoming invisible this week, but I also felt like I was standing behind a glass (soundproof) wall. People may have seen my mouth moving, but they sure as hell weren’t listening. Even when I repeated myself, over and over. Gently at first, thinking they perhaps hadn’t heard me. Then more forcefully because, damn it, I meant what I said the first time, but having to repeat it sixteen times made me a little cranky. Like – stop poking me.

And what I was saying might have been important. It just may have had some validity or at least been worthy of consideration. Otherwise, I wouldn’t spend my time saying it. Time and a lot of hard-earned experience (a lot of which has turned my hair gray, I might add), are pretty much all I have to give.

I’m not saying everything I say is correct, necessarily, nor a pearl of wisdom. Whether it was my opinion on where to stop or what to eat, or a question with a bit more heft.

If you ask me something, then at least respond as though it has registered.

You know – so I don’t feel as though I should pantomime my response or act it out in interpretive dance.

Otherwise? I realize I’m disappearing.

And I may or may not go gently into the night.

(T-1049)