My Disappearing Act

    It is finally happening: I'm disappearing. Or maybe I have disappeared completely, only just don't want to admit it. I've heard about this phenomenon before, but now I'm actually living it... the plight of post-menopausal women everywhere. There we are, wandering through shopping malls and grocery stores, or attending various events, gliding through the business of our life, all the while completely unnoticed. Heads that used to turn as we passed no longer turn. Even quick glances our way rarely happen. Forget about lingering stares- a thing from another era. 

    I am referring of course to the male gaze. The irony of all of this is not lost on me. I spent much of my life feeling anxious about male eyes on me, and bothered by the sexual objectification of women. Yet part of me also enjoyed it. I enjoyed being noticed, especially in a world that placed a premium on women being noticed for their beauty. It was a sort of validation; if I was looked at appreciatively, I was valued. 

    It is awkward to write about this, to admit it, to publish that I liked being noticed once. It smacks of ego, superficiality, vanity and all things shallow. It shows my vulnerability, my weak spot. It suggests that I am not "aging gracefully" (whatever that means). It might read like another woman whining. I'm aware of all of this. But I'm writing about it anyway because the strangest thing is happening to me these days... the more I disappear in the outside world, the more visible my truth becomes. As my physical form fades into the background, my voice becomes louder than ever. 

    It's hard disappearing when you don't want to, when you aren't ready. I find myself wondering if men go through this as well. Do they reach a point where they are never looked at anymore? And if so, does it bother them? My instinct is to think they don't care because masculinity is so often tied up with performance and achievement, so a man who doesn't look as juicy as he once did isn't such a big deal. In contrast, beauty is still upheld as the feminine ideal. So when that beauty goes, it is more of a letdown. 

    I know that what is needed is a new definition and portrayal of beauty in our society, and I know there are people working on this, but we're not there yet. I know also that I am more bothered about this now than before because it now affects me directly, being invisible I mean. I know that beauty shouldn't be equated with youth, but it is. I know that I shouldn't be bothered by this. But the longer I live on this planet, the less I listen to the shoulds because I know that, often, they come from someone else.

    Maybe if women were valued more for their performance and achievement and less for their looks, they wouldn't feel so crushed when their looks are no longer noticed. Maybe if their actions, minds, hearts and souls were held in equal esteem, they could age gracefully, and wouldn't have to spend a fortune on skin-care products in a frantic attempt to stop the passage of time on their faces. Maybe. Who knows? I just know that disappearing is hard. For me anyway. 

Play date

    I'm standing in my living room looking out onto the sidewalk I share with my neighbors who have 2 small boys, both under the age of 4. At the moment, my neighbor (their mom) is standing on the sidewalk with another mom who lives a few doors down. They both have small children and it seems (from what I can tell with my nosy neighbor eyes) that lately, they have been getting the older kids to play together. 

    Their two older kids are also on the sidewalk, and it doesn't look like the playing is going too well today. I do my neighbor spy thing for about a minute (don't want to be caught in the act of course), but I realize that it is enough time to instantly fill me with a mix of emotions and one urge: to run out to the sidewalk and shout to the moms, "Stop what you're doing this instant! Please!" I realize it is my new self who wants to go out there, this post-menopausal woman who thinks she is now filled with boundless wisdom and wants to share that wisdom with whoever will listen. So what is this thing the two moms are doing that is stirring me so much?

    They are hovering over the two little ones, who are actually playing separately more than together, until one of them starts to cry and soon after that, I notice they have disappeared back to their own house. But it isn't the hovering that's bothering me; it's the hand-wringing nervousness I can feel, as they survey the scene unfolding, bodies tense, faces unsmiling. It reminds me of myself, the me then (about 13 years ago) who was where they are now. In that instant, I completely see my younger self in the two moms. I feel all of that watchful angst, as I'm jolted in my mind and heart back to the days I watched my own son try to play with other kids.

    I am watching them but I am seeing and feeling me as well. My heart actually starts to beat faster, my palms get sweaty for a few seconds; I open and close my hands as I surf through the memories. There I am again, a completely stressed and tense mom with a young kid, thinking everything he does is a reflection of me. There I am wondering why he can't just play perfectly with the others, why he's so intense, why these play-dates rarely work out, why I can't figure out how to help him. I feel a tangent starting and poof...there I am on maternity leave on a yoga mat at the "mom 'n' me yoga" class i signed up for with my 6 month old and wondering why he's crying, when all of the other babies aren't crying. There I am feeling totally helpless as I suspect, for the first time, that this kid, my son, is indeed his own person, that I can't control him completely like I've been able to control other things in my life. 

    But back to the present moment... the me these days has a 16 year old who lives in the basement and whose 3 greatest loves seem to be gaming with his gamer friends, watching YouTube videos and playing his electric guitar. I might come in 4th, on a good day. The me these days knows for sure that he is his own person, that he came into my life with his own unique blueprint 16 years ago, and although I can guide him and share my own values with him, he will ultimately do what he chooses to do. There is a strange peace in knowing this. 

    I don't go out to the sidewalk, even though the urge is there. I know that just because I am 52 now doesn't mean I know everything. I also know my neighbor moms need to figure things out in their own time and in their own way. So I don't go out. I want to though. Badly. I want to give them both a hug and a cup of tea. I want to tell them, "Hey, step back for a minute, come over here and have some tea with me while the kids figure it out. Because they will. They always do". I want to tell them that.