I remember the exact moment I became world-invisible. Or conscious of becoming world-invisible. It was when my daughters became beautiful.
Oh they always were. I am their mother after all; but when people started noticing them because they were notice-worthy. Especially young and not so young men. I didn't mind that I was no longer noticed. This was fine. Even good. And mostly the attention was just that--a head turn, extra help, or advantages when waiting for a table.
In the company of my daughters, I was no longer seen. If I needed help, from a waiter or a salesperson, I would ask my daughters to ask.
It was a transition. Life is transitions. It's not the person with the most education or good looks that succeeds in life; it is the person who can adapt to change.
And now I've entered another transitional stage.
The older woman.
I boarded the plane. It was the front row, so I needed to store my backpack in the overhead bin. The woman next to me was tall and strong and young. When I tried to slip out of my window seat to place the bag, she said with authority, "Oh no. I've got it."
And when we landed, I asked to get past her so I could retrieve my bag and she said "No, I'm getting it for you." She said it with a noticeable vibe as if I were her grandmother. And I could have been.
"Well you are a great seat mate. Thank-you."
I hadn't appeared feeble. Perhaps it was that it was past midnight and our flight had been multiple-times delayed. Perhaps I looked tired. Perhaps she was just raised right and looked out for her elders.
I saw it as another transition. And I wasn't ready to acquiesce, but I wasn't going to wrestle this kind, tall, strong, young woman.
It's made me even prouder that I carried, pulled, struggled with my luggage in Switzerland. It may have been that last window before I emerged from my youthful cocoon into a beautiful, medicare-card carrying granny.
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