In an earlier post, I talked about the many lives I've seemed to live, categorizing them by decade. I'm now in my sixth decade, hurling toward the Big 6-0 in a time I've come to characterize as "My Disappearing Act." Now my husband must have some serious love goggles on because he somehow still finds me attractive while I have watched my: • hair thin out • face melt down to my chest • chest melt down toward my middle • middle expand (must be all that other stuff melting onto it) • extremities losing muscle tone • hands wrinkle like the crypt keeper's • veins bug out Sounds horrifying, no? I do my best to keep it all together (owing much of this to the correct underpinnings and some deficit-hiding wardrobe witchcraft) but the truth is, it's hard to keep up with it all. And the world has stopped paying attention anyway. I remember how much I hated catcalls and lopsided attention paid to my physical assets back in my 20s. I still hate all that but it doesn't matter - there's none to hate at this point. Where I couldn't help but notice being noticed back in the day, now I'm virtually invisible. With the exception of older men which is something, I suppose. And I don't think it's all about appearance, really. I feel like as we age, we fade into the background more and more no matter what we look like. And if we don't it's likely because our attempts to recapture our youth have turned out badly. It's kind of a lose-lose situation. As our edges become less sharp, we just naturally blend into everything. With every passing year, it seems, we become the masses. And this is not a new thought - there are books about becoming invisible with age, articles about how it happens in the workplace. Actress Kristin Scott Thomas spoke about it in UK's Daily Mail: "Voicing the fears of so many women of a certain age, she said: ‘I’m not talking about in a private setting, at a dinner party or anything. But when you’re walking down the street, you get bumped into, people slam doors in your face – they just don’t notice you.’" I imagine men might feel the same, if they're the types to notice (or admit) it. What to make of this? I think I'll toss it into the bucket titled "It's what's inside that counts." As our exterior begins to fail us we're almost forced to focus inward. To pay more attention to what we're truly made of, and for. Move aside aversion to plastic surgery, and make room in that bucket for invisible me. We've all got work to do.
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d.a.meek
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December 2017
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