Invisibility
Almost four years ago, I began my transition toward comfort over fashion, make-up, and washing my hair regularly. I recall the exact moment when I started to imagine what it would be like to wear my face naked with confidence. It was January 2020, and I was taking an intensive 85-hour prenatal yoga training course in Vancouver. The instructor was other-worldly in her spiritual and compassionate depth for people, and in her beauty. What struck me was that she never wore makeup. Her face, bare, might have been devastating with some mascara and liner, but she didn’t need it. I admired her showing up before a group of people, sharing her wisdom and charm without any enhancements, minus a badass sleeve of animal tattoos.
I didn’t always wear makeup. After becoming a journalist, I wore a lot. And before that, to get me through graduate school, I served golfers spiked Arnold Palmers and Michelob Ultra mixed with Palm Bay spritz for generous tips. I noticed the difference when I wore red lipstick and powder to tame the forehead glare, and soon that was a ritual my confidence relied upon. In my professional life, I wore skinny jeans and suit jackets. Then we had the pandemic.
Athleisure, bed-tousled hair, and heavy socks became part of the everyday style as many of us worked from home. We all hid in our homes for a year, or was it two, and emerged reluctant to return to the old ways. This is what I tell myself. It’s not that I’m staring down 40, it’s that I’m a product of the pandemic. I have new routines, and that involves caring less about my out-of-the-house look. I’d rather feel sexy at home in my ribcage-high sweatpants, a T-shirt that’s grown softer with age, and a pleasantly indecent romantasy book in my hands. For anyone who read “Fourth Wing” this year, you know what I mean.
Now, here comes the fear that snakes its way into my subconscious when I’m out and about. That truck that almost took me out at the crosswalk, or the shop attendants who completely ignored me as I browsed the racks of clothes, trigger this fear that I’m becoming more invisible as I age. Sure, I put less effort in, but I don’t wear shapeless sweatpants on the regular.
The seed of this thought came from a fleeting comment I heard a year ago. I was walking through the Toronto airport with a woman who was about two decades my senior, and she commented how no one was looking at her, they were only giving me “the eyes.” I blushed and couldn’t help but think, “I still got it.” But the essence of that scene stuck with me. My companion was beautiful, with her long, thick flowing grey hair and warm smile that carried into her eyes.
When I inspected further, I wondered if it was because right now, I remain age-ambiguous. I have a youthful face, which I hated growing up, no one took me seriously. I haven’t been ID’d in a while (cough, years), but people are kind enough to say I look younger than my actual age. Good genes can only go so far. Eventually, I’ll crest the indeterminate age zone, and I’ll be walking down the other side toward crone.
This is the superficial layer of this fear of invisibility. I dove into it first because the deeper layers are even more terrifying. I’m just getting over my two-week bout of having a terrible virus that hit me worse than COVID, and my energy is wanting. Whole days go by, and I try to count on one hand what I did that day. I know rest is essential to my recovery. I’m restless. When will I return to my energetic self, tackling the tasks, big and small? I don’t want to become invisible by living a “just getting by” type of existence. I want to lend my energy to meaningful projects that contribute to culture, a thriving community, and a vibrant home life. Then I imagine what my current situation would be like with kids. I couldn’t mope about in my recovery with rambunctious children at my heels. I wouldn’t care about being invisible when I’m more concerned about raising tiny humans.
On my walk out to the cafe to write this, I was wearing a toque on my head and my full-length Jedi-type sweater over a dress, with yoga pants, and combat boots, my face bare and moisturized. A double honk forced my gaze up from the sidewalk, and I saw two men, smiles plastered on their faces, waving at me from inside the cab of the town garbage truck. Inappropriate behaviour coming from a pair of civil servants. Ten years ago, I would have scowled at the gesture. But at 39, I smiled to myself, a little “still got it” sang through my mind.
Yours Truly,
Fearless Forty
The Menesetung Bridge crosses the Maitland River near its entry into Lake Huron by the Town of Goderich.
