Two years ago, I attended a pandemic-era book club via Zoom. During the discussion with about a dozen thoughtful, articulate readers, one of them proposed a question I still haven’t answered.
“How do you deal with invisibility? she asked. “About the fact that you will be less commanding in every ensuing year?”
The questions had been submitted weeks ahead of our meeting and I’d thought about my answer to this one, so I said something like, “I still expect to be seen so I make sure I am.” In other words, I refuse to be ignored at any age.
Of course, that’s not what she meant, so she kept trying to explain. I never did understand her concern. Until now.
She wasn’t asking me how to change other people’s attitudes or make people notice or include me. She wanted to know how I dealt with the inevitable: people looking past or around or over me, as though I were not in the room. Or at the table. As if I didn’t exist.
One of my closest friends has built his career as a pastor and nonprofit leader addressing the basic human need for welcome, safety and belonging. For over twenty of those years I’ve watched him lift up people who have been ignored because of race, gender, education, sexual preference, ability or economic status. Now we both find ourselves within a final category: age.
For beautiful young women and men who turn heads every time they walk into a room, growing old can be the great leveler. For others, retirement spells a surprising and difficult end to daily acknowledgement within a work group. Competitive athletes eventually have to give up winning in the same ways they used to prevail.
Suddenly, we’re not at the center; sometimes, we’re not even noticed.
My first real experience with being invisible due to my age happened in my fifties, when I realized I’d need to be a pretty fabulous salsa dancer before most, if any, of the men in my class would ask me to dance outside our studio lessons. I would be doing the asking until I got really, really good.
Meanwhile, every straight male on the floor would be willing to help an inexperienced but attractive young female learn how to dance; the few gay men who attended those salsa events usually brought and danced with their partners.
I didn’t understand that dynamic during my first social dance–the one I attended after I had taken two or three lessons. I demanded my money back from the startled owner of the studio because I had stood on the sidelines for thirty minutes, and was feeling humiliated and indignant. Where were all the teachers and fellow students who were supposed to be helping newbies like me practice?
I guess I’ve been dealing with “invisible” for quite a while.
As a child, I loved to think about how much fun I would have if I were invisible—I figured if people couldn’t see me, I could observe them unnoticed. I could walk right into a room and eavesdrop on my parents or play pranks on my brother, who almost always had the upper hand because he was older and bigger. I could run outside to play and no one would try to stop me.
As an adult, I don’t have to be invisible.
I can go wherever I want, whenever it suits me. When my partner and his coffee shop buddies play tricks on each other–which they do almost daily–I can join in the fun. I can even pull an occasional prank of my own, even though some of the boys are older and most are bigger than I am. That doesn't matter anymore.
But sometimes, I still want to be invisible.
At a party, I enjoy eavesdropping from a distance; I can always choose to engage when a conversation sounds interesting. I also like to observe, often from a quiet corner, how people behave in a social setting—it’s fascinating, really. And these days I find slipping out of a party unnoticed to be easier, perhaps because the hosts expect guests of my age to tire more quickly. In this particular case, I am more than willing to take advantage of a stereotype.
Then there’s the relief of being invisible to the men who somehow believe every woman under fifty wants to know what they think about how she looks. Of course, I miss the admiration youth evokes. I’m also grateful to be free of unwanted commentary–and sometimes outright pursuit– that young women and men endure.
Yes, I’ve had to get used to a different kind of attention—a place other than the center. And getting used to that spot took some time. But commanding a room often required a performance of some sort and I’m not into performing. Not anymore. I don’t need that kind of attention. When I don’t want attention, I know how to become invisible.
So, the next time someone asks how I deal with not being seen as I age, I’ll acknowledge how tough it can be. Then I’ll ask a question: “Have you considered the upside of invisible?”
That could lead to a very different conversation.