I’m in that invisible phase of my life. I slid into middle age about as gracefully as a duck landing on ice. Yes, I am a flapping water bird of hairy chins and age spots. Quack.
There are no more offers of help. No awkward come-ons. Sure, the underestimating, the mansplaining, and the cattiness remains. When doesn’t it? But I am not the sweet young thing that people will go out of their way for. I am also not yet the snappy, spry old woman that people will go out of their way to help. I’m just in the puberty of my crone-ism. You know how we are at this age. All ̶e̶l̶b̶o̶w̶s̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶k̶n̶e̶e̶s̶ (okay, okay — tummy and jowls). Eyes slide right over me. My opinions are not asked for, not even to then be ignored. No one opens doors for me. I can do that myself, thank you for not noticing.
The ‘maiden — mother — crone’ classifications do not work at this phase. ‘Maiden-to-mother’ is a seamless transition, for the most part. You have a baby, and then you’re a mother. (I know that’s not exactly how it works. But it generally signals the start of the next phase of your life, no? Let’s leave that for another time.)
‘Mother-to-crone’ seems a rockier transition. When does that happen? I know that menopause seems like something that would signal a transition, but it seems that I took on the invisibility superpower a bit before this. Besides, I was never a birth mother, so I guess it’s my destiny to go from ‘maiden’ to ‘crone’ with only this weird space of ‘not-quite-either.’ Not young, not old, but taking up space — even more so now that menopause seems to have claimed the last of my metabolism. That space has become a void, where there used to be someone but now only a shadow remains. Why I made the decision not to have children is a story for another day, but I right now I need something to replace that pesky middle panel of the triptych. Can I just be Woman? Is that allowed?
I don’t care — or at least, I am working on not caring. The longer I slip into this in-between, the more comfortable I am at not caring. Life is a speeding train and the tracks are getting ricketier. I am approaching ‘fuck it’ junction, population me. I’ll jump out there and stake my claim.
Maybe I should make my own junction, and make the leap now. Maybe I don’t have to be seen by anyone but me. Maybe I need only please myself. Maybe, maybe, maybe…but my fingers are not quite willing to let go of that handrail. But it’s coming. I can see it on the horizon.
Invisibility can be a superpower, allowing women to do what they will, be who they are, and not be questioned. They have a menagerie of animals. They are active in community affairs. They are not active in community affairs. They go braless. They have chin hairs. They have plastic surgery. They have makeup on at all times, or never. Whatever they do, they do it to either woo themselves or soothe themselves.
With a flounce of my invisible cape, I will whisk myself into invisible land. It’s a rich place, dotted with other invisible women. We are everywhere. We can often see each other, you know. I tilt my chin(s) at you over there, sitting in the hotel lobby by yourself reading a magazine as a couple has a loud argument, oblivious to the in-between behind their shoulder. They don’t see you. But I see you. Hey.
