We Are Not Invisible

by Patti

The other night M and I were watching TV and a commercial came on where a very distinguished yet clearly old (not even older -- OLD) man, all decked out in a suit with a cliche silk scarf wrapped around his neck and some serious salt and pepper scruff, was hawking some kind of booze. The thing that stood out to me, though, was that this old man, while hawking his booze, was flanked by some very NOT old women. In fact, calling them women is a stretch - I had to wonder if they were even old enough to drink that booze legally. And these "women", all golden-haired and lithe-limbed and could-be-his-granddaughters-ish, were all over this dude, smitten and amazed and in awe by his Royal Oldness, and there he was, all, well, OLD, looking all smug and having the time of his life. And I couldn't help it: I got annoyed. "Can you picture it the other way?" I asked Marcelo. "Imagine if, instead of an old man, there was an old woman, like,'the same age' old, and she was surrounded by all these hot, young guys? Can you even imagine that?" I repeated, trying to even imagine it myself. Instead, what I sadly knew to be true was this old man surrounded by these beautiful young GIRLS was actually plausible, while the other way around would be merely a Saturday Night Live skit starring Betty White.

And that is when I felt a tiny bubble of panic start to rise in my chest. I didn't want this to be true, but I knew it was. I looked over at M, who was aware of what I was saying, but not nearly as affected by it. He's a man - obviously - and one who, at 45 years of age, is aging. However, he, at 45, is in the prime of his life, his temples dotted with salt, his face a little softer yet more distinguished, his intense eyes somehow more manly than before. I, on the other hand? Am not far behind him, yet, there is nothing "distinguished" about what's goin' on up in here. I've written before about the whole process of "falling apart", and my God it just is not pretty.

But this lament is not to reiterate that. It is more about how sad it is in this society that, as we age, women somehow become.. invisible. Even to ourselves. After all, here I was clearly pointing out that commercial with roles reversed would not have been plausible. Why was I saying this? Because, on some level, I myself believed it. I myself relegate the possibility of an aging woman as attractive to a Saturday Night Live skit. And that's a shame. And what's more shameful is that there is a whole lot of women, complaining about the unfairness of it all, still completely buying into it as the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help them God.

You've probably heard the news about Demi Moore's latest shamefest; the one where she was apparently huffing on some teenagery type of drug and had to be rushed to the hospital as a result, and is now being treated for "exhaustion". No, what she is being treated for is buying into it. She is being treated for desperately clinging to her youth. She is being treated for believing she is invisible because her skin is not as supple as it once was. She is being treated for believing that starving herself will melt off not only the fat, but also the years. And the most disgusting part of it all is that, if you are embarrassing like me and read celebrity gossip sites and get into all of comments that other readers leave behind, other women are the worst proponents of this whole societal "truth". Comments like, "...she really needs to do something about those jowels..."; and, "....wow, she really is NOT aging well...'; and, "oh my GOD, her HANDS - they look so OLD!"

When I read things like this, and then look down at my own foreign-looking hands as I type this, I can't help but feel that tiny bubble of panic rise up in my chest. It's happening to them; it's also happening to me. As a professional singer, I see it every day, the women are simply discarded after a certain age, as if suddenly that talent vanishes with the hot youth. Yet, the men? Are still up there, balding, fat, but still there, accepted -- admired, even.

And so this is how it has to be: I have to simply accept it. It's going to happen. And all I can do is do my best to take care of myself, mind and body, and continue to develop who I am as a person, not just a face, or a body in skinny jeans. And when I look down at my hands and see the veins, the wrinkles, the worn fingers, I need to learn to be grateful for them. After all, these hands have touched so much; these hands have learned faces and skin and run themselves across what have become the memories that make up my life. And these hands? Have yet to learn so much more.