...And Carry a Big Selfie Stick

You know you're getting old when your daughter assumes you're dead (or, worse still, wandering around the neighborhood aimlessly in your granny pants) when you don't return her call within an hour. You know you're getting really old when someone guesses you are five years older than you are and thinks he is being complimentary.

When nobody notices the filmy bit of lettuce on your front tooth, or that you're only wearing one earring, or that your sweater is on inside out, because you've somehow become invisible. When the check out lady in Target asks you if you need a gift receipt for the cute (and, you thought, modest) romper you found for twenty bucks. There are no more leading lady roles in my future, and certainly no white knights. Not that there were any in my past. I suppose I'll never be a concert pianist either.

It's liberating, in a way, to fly under the radar. To myself I am not so much invisible as inaccurate. The image I see in my bathroom mirror is of the ageless me. I am young and smooth skinned and the hair close to my scalp does not match my bluish gray eyes. It's all about the tilt and the lighting, and safe distance. The world doesn't see me as I do, through the blurred lens of an extra long selfie stick. Sometimes, it doesn't see me at all, which means I can pretty much do as I please. Which includes, for example, marveling at the commercial for a narcotic cure for painful post-menopausal sex, wondering why women wouldn't opt for a far more obvious, far more natural cure. Like my dad used to tell me when I'd say things like "it hurts when I move my hand this way" -- don't move your hand that way. 

How does one go about describing oneself when the external signs melt away. My daughter, when she finally reached me earlier today, told me she had done something the other day that made her feel like she was becoming me. Oh no. This could not be good. As it turns out, it was good, as good as it gets. She told somebody what a great job she had done, how much of an impact she had had on her. The person had been both shocked and thrilled. She admitted she had doubted her abilities, doubted her worth. My daughter remembers watching me do such things, walking up to strangers to tell them they had done something of value, that they had meant something to me. She remembers being mortified. But she remembers.

Frankly, I don't remember doing enough of that kind of thing, and when she told me her story today, I made a mental note to do more, to do better. To pay it forward, as my daughter did, today. As it turns out, I am not invisible to her -- at least no more invisible than I ever was, sartorially speaking. She has always seen me from the inside out. It's not always pretty, but it's unchanging. And there's no flying under the radar, but recognizing what doesn't necessarily show up in the rose colored selfie stick lens sure can be liberating.

Walking my puppy this evening with a friend, musing about our less than glamorous Saturday night, we came upon a sign at the local "Moose Lodge" for ballroom dancing lessons. She went in to get the schedule, and she almost has me convinced we should sign up. Will it be less painful than unmedicated post-menopausal sex? Maybe, but probably just as awkward. At least we are invisible, so nobody will notice.