Can You See Me Now?

by Kerry Blair

I don’t want to alarm anyone unduly, but it has recently come to my attention that when American women reach a certain age they begin to disappear. We don’t do it with flair like Sue Richards of the Fantastic Four. Rather we just seem to fade from sight, much like the Cheshire Cat, except that our smiles fade before the rest of us. I’m pretty certain that the day will come when all that is left of me is an age-spotted hand holding a small square of plastic. (While cashiers, waiters, and clerks the world over seldom give middle-aged-and-older woman a second glance, they never, ever miss our credit cards!)

Not coincidentally, this fade-effect first happens about the time we’ve discovered that our skin has gone from Spandex to crepe and our hair from dark blonde to Evening Primrose #52. (I’ve seen lots of primroses in my life, and none of them were the color of hair dye. Who thinks of the names for those boxes anyway?) Believe it or don’t, the fading that comes naturally to humankind doesn’t bother me much. What rankles is the realization that our society has become youth-oriented enough for me to pass rest of my life attracting less attention than a stealth bomber. At midnight. Under heavy cloud cover.

Frankly, I might not have noticed that I’d faded from view if my jeans had not reached critical mass. Sometime in the past two decades (most likely when my back was turned – and my face freckling from the glow of the refrigerator light bulb) I went from pleasingly plump to a dead ringer for Rosie, the female white rhino at the Phoenix Zoo. (Meaning no offense to Rosie who is quite lovely for her breed.)

Anyway, it was a wake-up call. So at great personal sacrifice (please imagine “great” italicized, underlined, capitalized and in BF – the program won’t let me do it all at once) I embarked upon a diet and have now lost more than twenty-five pounds. That’s a quarter of a hundred. Half a bag of chicken scratch. A smallish Sunbeam. Get the idea? If so, you’re the only one. Nobody – absolutely nobody – on the planet has noticed my sacrifice, or rejoiced in my modicum of success. (Well, possibly Rosie has. Her teeny little eyes widened a little when last we met.)

I’m not losing weight for recognition, of course. At least I didn’t think I was until I starting writing about it this morning. Okay, so maybe that’s all I’ve had in mind all along! As long as I’m confessing, I might as well admit that I’ve become frankly pathetic in my quest to get somebody – anybody – to say, “Well done!” (Not you. That would just be embarrassing. Step away from the comment button right now!)

Case in point. Before I discovered that I could sell my too-large clothing on ebay for fun and profit, I took a big bag of fat clothes to Goodwill. Unable to hide the smug tone in my voice I said to the attendant sorting donations, “I can’t wear these things anymore. I—”

“Dump them in the bin,” he interrupted.

“I’m just saying that I lost—”

“Lost and Found is inside. This is donations only.”

“No. I mean I lost—”

“Inside.”

Trying another tact, I ventured, “I can’t wear these clothes anymore because—”

“We don’t care what you did to them, lady. We’ll take anything. Dump them in the bin.”

I pitched the bundle of clothes at his head.

Okay, I didn’t. I dropped them in the bin. But I wanted to do that first thing, if only to assure him – and myself – that I was really there.

Sadly, I had to re-learn that rotten little lesson about minding what you wish for. Monday afternoon, upon discovering there was little in the closet that fit me better than a pup tent, I once again ventured out to a thrift store. This time I went inside, unwilling to spend serious money on clothes I hope not to wear more than a couple of months, and eager to try the “notice me” ploy in reverse. After a wildly successful foray in the jean aisle, I plopped two pair down at the checkstand, elated that they were a size I haven’t worn since before the last baby was born. (The “baby” will soon turn 21.)

“Nothing in my closet fits me anymore,” I told the cashier hopefully*. She was cute, blonde, and possibly eighteen. If you divided her age by the number of her piercings (nine) you’d probably arrive at her approximate jean size.

And yet the blessed girl looked right at me! I practically melted from joy and satisfaction. Recognition for my hard work and sacrifice at last!

“Yeah,” she said, oozing understanding and sympathy. (Not quite the reaction I was going for.) “My mom’s getting fat, too. It happens when you get really old.”

Ouch.

Now that I think about it, forget I brought any of this up. Perhaps at my age fading away is a good thing. Possibly I should shoot for invisible. Then I could eat all the Ding Dongs my heart desires. (It wants about twenty this morning. Deep fried with enchilada sauce and sour cream, please. And an order of onion rings on the side. And . . . )

If I can’t swing invisible, maybe I’ll just spend the rest of my days hanging out with Rosie. If anybody does happen to see me, next to her I’ll look positively svelte.


*Note to David: I added the -ly word just for you! All the ellipses are for Rob, of course.