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LATELY, I HAVE been listening with great interest to other women speaking about how they are made to feel invisible and less relevant to society once they have reached “a certain age.”
This phenomenon has even got its own name – The Invisible Woman Syndrome. A cultural experience rather than a formal diagnosis and apparently it begins at 52.
Writer Marian Keyes described how, one day, a group of teenage boys messing about didn’t move to give her room as she approached. She decided to rebel by marching through them, elbows out, getting in their space and forcing them to see her.
Good for you, Marian. I like your style. But in my book, there’s a lot to be said for a little bit of ageing camouflage. My 20s were spent having great fun; socialising and floating from job to job, possibly in that order. As long as there wasn’t too much money left at the end of the month, I was happy. All I needed back then was rent money and a sufficient amount left over for socialising. However, my twentysomething self was already feeling the pressure to behave and look a certain way. It didn’t help my more laid-back personality and carefree lifestyle when ideologies like five-year plans and mortgages were being casually dropped into conversations in the pub.
I was plunged into the depths of motherhood for my third decade. There are some large memory gaps for much of this time which is ironic as not a drop of alcohol was taken. Five years of being pregnant and/or breastfeeding will do that to you followed by another five spent herding four boy children towards and into primary school. To this day I maintain some of the more difficult days of my life were during that period. Yet through it all I kept a smile plastered on my face and lied through gritted teeth that I was enjoying every minute of it. Because what would people think if I said otherwise?
Now that I have reached a “certain age,” fulfilled societal expectations in that I am married and have raised progeny, I am thrilled with the prospect of being invisible. An added bonus to said offspring being of the male variety means the family name is secure and because of all of that, I honestly believe society expects nothing more from me and I am not in the least bit bothered by it.
It’s already started at home with my teenagers. They don’t seem to “see” me anymore. But after years of struggling through motherhood – loving them but not the job – bring it on I say. Many’s the time I tuned out mealtime chatter related to music, Xbox, sport and the gym. Purely because I knew nobody expected me to join the conversation. Always grateful for a chance to get lost inside my own head, I made good and proper use of that time to think about the things that are of interest to me without being interrupted. And nothing turns the spotlight back onto me like asking who wants chocolate cake for dessert.
There is a delicious bang of power attached to invisibility. For me, at least. In my early 50’s, I am the most confident I have ever been. Even without the armour of heavy makeup. Even with extra padding around my middle. It’s not that I don’t care how I look. Quite the contrary, but I don’t care anymore about other people’s perception of me. These glorious days, I am the proud owner of a “who cares because I don’t” mentality.
It is a gift not to be bothered with layers of makeup and expensive skincare anymore. A joy not to be sucked in by Yoga apps designed for “women aged 50 and over who haven’t exercised in years.”
There is real beauty in realising the true meaning of “don’t sweat the small stuff.” “No” has become an actual full sentence with no explanation offered. Words of apology and excuses are not in my vocabulary anymore. I know what I like and, most importantly, what I don’t like. I have worn welly boots to the school gate and gardening garb in the supermarket. I enjoy my raspberry-coloured crocs more than life itself. And not once have I been pointed at in horror. Because no-one is paying attention to me.
The freedom of it all is intoxicating.
Recently, a TikTok trend had us meeting our younger selves for coffee, offering wisdom and reassurance. I wanted more than anything to give that fresh-faced version of me a giant hug and guarantee that everything would be ok. And then, just for balance, a swift clip round the ear followed by a stern order to cop myself on.
It did make me wonder what the impressionable, juvenile me would have thought of her twenty-first-century alter ego. I like to think she might have been slightly impressed and even a bit in awe of her future self. Particularly, the time I chased down another driver who verbally abused me to give them a piece of my mind.
Of course, she might also have been completely scandalised and scarlet for me. Making a show of myself like that. With other people watching and everything. Or maybe not. Perhaps she would have taken it all in her stride. She absolutely would have been mortified by my choice of footwear, though.
Gwen Loughman is gatekeeper of four boys, one husband and watcher over two dogs.
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