Invisible me

Invisible. Not visible.

It’s being in a crowd of people and you don’t acknowledge those around you.

It is eavesdropping on conversations that aren’t being shared with you.

It’s when you are not recognized by others. 

It’s when you shut the door and no one dares to knock.

It’s when people know you, but they don’t know you, because they don’t want to admit they know you.

The act of being invisible is a phenomona. Phenomena is an observable fact or aspect that is observed through the senses; an experience. The tug and war of being noticed and not being noticed. Being invisible has been with me all of my life. Invisibility is a multi-level experience.

In high school I wanted to be invisible. If Harry Potter cloaks were for sale I would’ve sold my soul to buy one. The fear of being made fun of was greater than being noticed, in a nice way. I never wanted to change my hair-do, my style of clothing or class schedule for fear of being noticed. I wanted to slide through and get out. The emotional pain-potential was too high.

As a young adult, I was racked with insecurities. I worried. I wanted to be approved by others. The invisibility cloak I gave myself was added poundage. I hid under the subcutaneous layer of fat. People ignored me. I got approval in other ways.

Then I woke up and discovered who I was without the poundage. I entered the world without it. I was freaked out at the attention I received. People,  especially men, looked at me differently. I was sexually attractive. Even attractive women noticed me. I entered the exclusive “Beauty Club”.

Things changed again after marriage and children. People didn’t notice me again because I was a stay-at-home mom with two children. What did I matter to the world? I was a frumpy nobody.

Then I entered the work world again. I was in a high-profile positions and the boss’s prize pet. Then I was the goat of the office whom everyone blamed. I didn’t agree with the boss. I was ostracized.

Being invisible at age 51 yrs. old is much different from being invisible at 17 yrs. old. Life tossed me the ups and downs; the losses and triumphs. I was left a shell at mid-life. I grieved in my cocoon. 

I again have emerged. Now, being invisible, is being cloaked in a level of confidence. I watch events fold open before me. I now know why people have wrinkles, grey hair, wear red hats and purple dresses. The hormones are gone. We’ve been through hell and back and we’re older and wiser.

I’m like a squirrel in a tree. My tail is switching back and forth and the dog below can’t see me. I’m invisible. I’m in control.  

Invisibility was self-imposed as a teenager to preserve my identity. It is self-imposed now to ensure my air of confidence and spirituality. It is what it is. I am who I am.

The bag lady blues

A stage play The Purse Chronicles debuted in Denver this past year from author Coleen Hubbard. The play involves two men who find a purse and try to imagine the personality of the woman from the contents. I thought of this play as I peered into my bag this week. It’s winter, so I switched to my bag with lots of pockets. You know the over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, bicycle courier, bag. Two months ago, when the holidays were upon us, I thought it would be easier to have this big bag since I would be hauling a lot of stuff with shopping and all. Unfortunately, the holidays are over and my bag is getting heavier by the day. I emptied it out and couldn’t believe what was in there.

THE BAG

I have six contact lens cases in there. I think I kept throwing them in because I couldn’t see one in there; Fifty credit card receipts, an empty prescription bottle and a bottle of hair product my stylist gave me to sample; A digital camera, battery charger and four photo cards; My wallet with cash, drivers license and cards, a check book, wallet sized pictures, five professional membership cards, business cards, four pens, three gift cards, and two types of wipes; Three sets of earrings, two necklaces, a bracelet, a watch and a rosary; Ten coupons, a note to myself, empty candy wrapper, two types of hand cream, prescription glasses case, reading glasses case, a birthday card and a book of stamps; A handkerchief, a pack of gum, a napkin, silver jewelry cloth, mouth guard container, a plastic spoon and a pair a gloves.

The contents and type of bag one carries around says alot about their personalities. A window to the soul. I think mine is more like a junk drawer.

In the past 60 years, the contents of our bags have changed. We went from one little bag to carry money and lipstick in, to lots of extra bags to meet different needs. We need bags to carry our coupons, daytimer, laptop, newspaper, magazines, smartphone, cell phone, work out clothes, yoga mat, umbrella, lunch, and bottled water.  My bags spill over into my car as I have places to go before and after work. 

I also have extas bags in my car to switch out to for style if I am out and about. Two or three fun stylish bags. After I arrive at my destination I decide which bag would look better with my outfit. I swap out the contents from one bag to another then head in with my bag that coordinates with my outfit.  

Why do I do this to myself? I don’t think I am trying to be a hoarder. I want to be prepared for any situation that is thrown upon me when I am out of the house. And I probably spend most of my time away from home in my car. My car sometimes feels like my second home. 

My bags are my baggage. These bags are packed with some level of fear. Fear of being unprepared. Occasionally, I have to give myself an intervention and purge the contents when the strain becomes too much for my shoulder or when the car needs cleaning.

I’m getting older and all of this stuff in my life is dragging me down. It takes a lot of time to throw stuff out and be organized. I think I am staying ahead of it and then it piles right into my life again. There isn’t enough time built into our lives to stay organized. We run from event to event and have little down time.

I just gotta keep pluggin along, cuz I’m singing the bag lady blues.