Invisible Me

This morning I decided it was a good day to shop for lingerie. I rummaged through the racks of silk and cotton searching for panties that would fit comfortably without looking utilitarian. I deliberated for half an hour and then began to wonder why a salesclerk had not come to offer help. I saw three talking on their cell phones and giggling, as though they were in a coffee shop instead of working in a department store. I became annoyed and shouted, “Yoo hoo!” Still nothing.

I began to wave frantically as though trying to catch a speeding cab. Still nothing. More giggles worked my nerves until finally I had enough and yelled, “Hey, does anyone work here?” The clerks glanced in my direction and then looked away indicating they considered helping a customer was an annoyance rather than part of their job description.

A lovely woman my own age smiled at me and then shook her head sympathetically. I wondered what was wrong. I touched my hair and glanced down to have a quick perusal of my clothes. I returned her smile.

“It’s the color of your hair,” she said. Her own stylish haircut rivaled the models in the magazine pictures, bangs with loose grey curls bouncing around her ears.

“Grey hair causes us to become invisible. Haven’t you noticed you’re the last one to be waited on in a restaurant and the waiters never ask if you want dessert but leave a check and scurry back to their cash registers?”

“Yes, now that you mention it.” My mind got busy recalling all the rude exchanges, mostly on my part when becoming impatient. A clerk at Panera’s came to mind. She kept asking me to wait while she trained her new employee. I waited five minutes before piping up, “How much longer?”

“We’re having problems with this computer,” she responded.

“Why don’t you use the computer next to you?”

“Oh, but you don’t understand, Pedro here needs to learn problem solving as well.”

“Yes, you’re right. I don’t understand why you’re putting both Pedro and me through an unnecessary ordeal.”

I handed her a twenty-dollar bill and asked for a bowl of soup and a glass of iced tea. She said she couldn’t make change without a computer. She appeared confused.

I began to laugh. I laughed out loud. “The change is nine dollars and forty-four cents.” At this point, the manager hurried over and took my order next to the defective computer.

I told this story to the woman in the lingerie department. Again, she shook her head sympathetically.

“We’ve become the invisible segment of the population.”

“Why? I can make change and fix a computer. My books sell, I give readings, and enjoy the admiration of my colleagues. All done with hard work and perseverance. I contribute to society, pay taxes, and live a quiet life. Even my environmental footprint is quite small.”

“It’s our grey hair, I’m afraid. Until the celebrities stop dying their hair to look younger, those of us who choose to be a vibrant natural seventy-year-old will continue to remain unnoticed. I suggest you go to Bergdorf’s for your unmentionables. They’ll be only too happy to help you spend your money instead of relegating you to the dust bin.”

I thanked her, still dumbstruck from the exchange. My mind began to wander to the past where I lived in a bubble of beauty. I took my beauty for granted and assumed the world would always flow in my direction. Not that I enjoyed the wolf whistles and men leaning out their truck windows, heads bent forward watching me walk by feeling slightly undone by their lascivious stares. One even yelled, “Hey Sunshine, how much do you charge?” I disappeared into a crack in the sidewalk, only my hands could be seen scrambling to pull myself out.

Beauty is a double-edge sword of loneliness and unwanted attention. People assume you are busy with your admirers and are always in the company of other friends when, in fact, you’re sitting alone at night watching reruns of Fraiser. They make assumptions without basis and then follow through with neglect. When invited to parties, the other guests gathered around me and asked if my reddish hair is natural and are my eyes really that blue or am I wearing contacts. I have always been uncomfortable talking about my appearance. Instead, I enjoy swapping stories and exchanging ideas. I never tire of verbal pursuits and the liveliness of good conversation until it turns to the superficiality of beauty.

Once at a soiree, several academics and artists argued over whether I was a model for Raphael or Botticelli. “Too slender to be in one of Botticelli’s paintings,” one academic was vehement about his position. The artists argued, “Her face is Raphael.” Another one interjected, “The figure on the right in Sistine Madonna.” I left when hearing another academic declare, “She’s the spitting image for the middle figure on the left in Primavera.” The last words I heard were, “Yes, but her nose is much bigger.” I didn’t know if they were talking about my nose or the model in the painting. I began to obsess over my nose.

I then wondered why I had been excluded from the conversation. Like most writers, I was familiar with the art works of many painters. Our imaginations allow us to slip inside a painting and enjoy life in all its variations. Writers live in their imaginations, rarely stepping outside except when needing to hear the familiar voices of their friends. I asked Betty if my nose was larger today than the day before. She stood back and studied it for a few seconds. “Nope, still the same petite proboscis you had when a teenager. This made me feel better until realizing I was succumbing to doubt. I had never questioned my beauty and now began to worry I might be overcome by caring about the discernment of other people. Who’s to say their perception of my appearance would be accurate? And isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder?

Am I really invisible? I began to watch others watch me until noticing they passed by without a friendly nod even though I smiled until my face hurt. I smiled all over the sidewalk and hung my smile from trees to catch a friendly glance from a fellow being. Even their dogs eyed me suspiciously and no doubt wondered if I suffered from a nervous twitch. Then I tried sending light to all those around me while standing on a street corner. Still nothing. I stood beaming like a six-hundred-watt light bulb while they talked among themselves. Two millennials discussed the comic they had seen on stage but couldn’t remember his name.

“You know who I mean, what’s-his-name on The Office,” one said to the other, but neither could remember his name. “The same one who hosted the Golden Globes and kept calling everyone a wanker.”

“What’s a wanker?” the other said.

Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer and heard myself pipe up, “Ricky Gervais starred in the original version of The Office, which takes place in England. Wanker is British slang for jerk. You can catch some of his comic monologues on YouTube,” I said, matter-of-factly and then smiled. Large grins flashed across their friendly faces.

“Wow, hey thanks. Do you know any other comics we’d like?”

“I think you would enjoy Michael McIntyre. There’s a compilation of his best jokes about Scots on YouTube. You won’t want to miss his monologue on going to the dentist. Hysterical!” We laughed together and then parted friends.

“Excuse me, miss, couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Was wondering if you know the name of that movie where Robin Williams plays a transvestite or crossdresser? I don’t know the correct term these days.” An elderly woman, slightly stooped with a cheerful aspect to her face waited for an answer.

“Yes, of course, crossdresser is the politically correct term in today’s climate. Both words usually refer to heterosexual men who enjoy wearing women’s clothes. It has nothing to do with their sexual orientation. Mrs. Doubtfire was the name of the movie in which he plays the part of a father pretending to be a housekeeper to see his son. It was such a delightful film. Poignant and funny, too. Did you know he won a Gold Globe award for Best Actor?”

“No, I didn’t but thank you. I always appreciate a lady with a brain.” She stepped off the curb and crossed the street.

Memories of my spouting pop culture and regaling others with hilarious slightly fictionalized stories of my daily adventures came flooding back. Perhaps, I have replaced my beauty with an ability to make others laugh in a world that now suffers from an apocalyptic feel. Story telling is an art form that requires years to perfect and a generous spirit. Somewhere in the passing years, I must have leaned heavier on my brain than my looks. This thought made me smile and I continued my day with ease.

Bergdorf Goodman’s always struck me as a magical materialistic place, a veritable fantasyland of jewelry and clothes for the old-money ladies and those with discerning tastes or a pocket full of charge cards. I looked at the chandeliers and the well-dressed customers and wondered if I should shop online. Just then, a salesclerk with a bright smile and red lipstick whisked me to the lingerie department. A tape measure hung around her neck and suddenly I found myself being sized from head to foot.

I began to elaborate on my previous lingerie adventure, summing up the possibility of finding myself in the margins of my life. When finished, she directed me toward the hair salon. Two hours later, I left the store with a large bag full of pretty under garments and grey hair bouncing happily down the street now cut in a sassy French bob with bangs. For a brief second, I wondered if my vanity had simply taken a different turn. Or was it still the same innate desire to live as one with others rather than separate and alone?

For more of Bonnie's writing, click here.