Withering Woodstockers

Despite weighing more than ever, thus naturally occupying more space, I am now almost completely invisible. You’d think that would qualify me as a bona fide super heroine, but actually quite the opposite is true: I am an ordinary female, age 62, but just like that witch in the “The Wizard of Oz,” I’m melting. Not really, but even if I were nobody would raise an eyebrow.

I started noticing this lack-of-being noticed phenomenon about ten years ago, but it wasn’t complete until I hit 60. Then zap, I was gone. Since then, I truly believe I could publicly disrobe and turn very few heads, except in winter, when I might get on the news for braving the elements.

I am still visible to people who want to sell me something or need a favor. For example, my dog still sees me, as do both my cats, especially first thing in the morning when I am hands-down the most popular person in the house. The mailman starts to smile and wave a lot beginning around the 10th of December. And naturally my banker always gives me a hug with each new deposit, but that’s completely understandable in today’s volatile financial environment.

I do not feel personally persecuted; after all, women my age who are a whole lot better-looking than I am are disappearing like flies. A good indicator of this trend is People magazine, where young actresses you’ve never heard of display their latest tattoos and designer duds and divulge their fabulous diet and makeup secrets, but you never catch a glimpse of Diane Keaton or Bette Midler or Cher or Sally Field or Goldie Hawn or all those other formerly-fabulous women who are exactly my age.

Why is this? I have reduced it to an easy-to-comprehend mathematical formula: Fear of Death (X) + Love of Money(Y) = Sex Sells. From the moment you get up in the morning, talk of sex dominates, and I don’t just mean around my house. According to the media, it’s all anyone thinks about, cares about, talks about, writes about and makes movies about. With the temporary exception of the hottest political superstar of the week, naked bodies and pierced belly buttons scream out at you from the TV, Internet, or newsstand, along with those ads for Viagra and Cialis and my personal favorite, Extenz, a penis-enhancement product “guaranteed to grow several inches on a certain male member.” (Hmm, which member I wonder, could it be? Harry Reid?)

Some of my friends are fighting this inevitable invisibility. For example, one just had injections of some “plumping liquid” that will allegedly stimulate collagen growth so her wrinkles will fill out. Several have had facelifts, making it difficult to determine how they really feel about aging. But despite their smooth faces, the neon signs above their heads that says, “Don’t hate me for being menopausal” makes them invisible too.

You may wonder, what’s the big deal? Well, while I’m not an aging movie queen clinging to an adoring public, it would be nice to command a waiter’s attention without having to stand on a chair and wave, or have a salesperson offer help or even just take my money, or get a response to a job application. (My age on paper makes me invisible as well.) During my heyday I was regarded as a witty conversationalist and somewhat off-the wall artiste, popular in fact with all sexes and genders. But as I age, I notice fewer and fewer offers coming from more and more people. And this is even with coloring my hair; God only knows what life is like for all those gray-haired ladies.

To his credit, my husband always sees me, at least when he is in town, off the phone, not checking his email or Googling something, and is hungry. I suppose if I had grandchildren they would adore me, since I would shower them with gifts and affection, but that doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon.

There are a lot of women out there who have great ideas, wonderful insights, and to-die-for recipes to be handed down for future generations. Please don’t shut them out just because they’ve lost their sparkle.