I’m from the Midwest, where modesty is always in style. We wear heavy chenille robes over our flannel pajamas, for heaven’s sake, and T-shirts under our turtlenecks, under our sweaters. Being noticed by the opposite sex rarely shows up on our list of personal goals (at least not the list we show anybody). Most girls raised in Indiana understand that the spotlight is reserved for head majorettes, cheerleaders, and an occasional athlete. The rest of us were too busy mowing the lawn or playing four-square to care (well, sort of). It’s okay, really. My unnoticeable teenage years were salvaged by the classics: “Dallas” on Fridays and “Love Boat” on Saturdays 🙂

It turns out that flying under the “woohoo – whatta looker” radar all those years prepared me for midlife invisibility. I actually heard about this syndrome years ago at the gym. An older man in the weight room often told stories about his invisibility to women in their 20s and 30s. Most of his episodes occurred in the chips and crackers aisle at the grocery. A pretty gal would struggle to reach the top shelf. This man (why can’t I remember his name?) would reach up and secure the bag of whatever for the distressed damsel, only to be rewarded with an exasperating, “Where did you come from?” Or my personal favorite, “Oh, I didn’t see you. Do you work here?” I thought what’s-his-name was making these stories up. Turns out, he was forecasting my future.

Going to a gym can test anyone’s self-esteem, but middle-aged woma face a unique challenge. We’re invisible. On one hand, it’s an answer to prayer. Gals in their 50s, 60s, and 70s who show up for Zumba class in baggy T-shirts and shorts congregate in the back, hoping to escape everyone’s notice. As luck and midlife would have it, we do. Earlier this spring the group exercise coordinator nearly cancelled Zumba on Tuesday nights because of low attendance. Then we discovered that the 24-year-old employee who conducted the weekly headcount didn’t include the last 3 rows in his total. Apparently, he couldn’t see us. Perfect.

I no longer worry about people’s reactions to me while I’m swimming. Will people be appalled when I emerge from the pool with thighs that arrive at the locker room five seconds before I do? Not if they can’t see me – and miracle of miracles – they can’t! OK, sometimes invisibility gets old. When I yell at a guy and grab his foot mid-flip turn to see if he’ll share the lane with me, Mr. Oblivious just keeps on swimming. A 23-year-old lets out a tiny sigh and every male occupant in all 6 lanes stop mid-kick, and campaigns for her attention. I let out a big sigh and make my way over to the section usually reserved for aqua aerobics. The octogenarian (who can see me) rolls her eyes and motions me in.

Along with those slightly irritating moments, invisibility can result in injury. More than once the front door of the gym has slammed into my face. I made the mistake of assuming that the young and very fit man holding the door realized that two women were exiting the gym. Turns out, the courtesy only extended to an adorable young gal you could pour into a freeze pop wrapper. Thump! “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see you there.” How is that possible? I’m twice as big as . . . oh, never mind. If this travesty happened just once or twice, I’d chalk it up to a funny coincidence. But my bruised forehead, forearm, and toes tell another tale.

Now when I walk through a door that’s not being held open for me and the awkward “thump” startles the young fellow from his trance, I jump right in and apologize first. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot to take off my invisibility cloak. Trust me, it’s so not your fault.” Or, “Oh, now don’t you worry about slamming that door in my face, honey, you can’t see me – it’s a scientifically proven phenomenon.” If I’m in a particularly a good mood that morning, I skip to my car. This leaves young men mystified and wondering things like – “Where did she come from? Does she work here?”

I just wish I could remember the guy’s name who warned me about this whole midlife invisibility thing. I can almost see him. He was, I think he was average height, and his hair was, well, I’m pretty sure he had hair. I’d look for him at the grocery, but it would be no use, seeing as how we’re both invisible now.