The Disappearing Woman

You're right Betty, growing old ain't for sissies!

I began to disappear at fifty; by fifty-five I had become almost entirely invisible. It happens to a lot of women at midlife. Some worry, others cry themselves to sleep, and a few --those who can afford it-- get their faces lifted, hair dyed to within an inch of its life, and scout around for young lovers. The latter tend to be unwrinkled, unemployed, and gender-challenged.

But, surprisingly, gradual fading didn't bother me at all. Blending into the background in New York can only be a tactical advantage. Survival over vanity: surely a sign of emotional maturity.

Seize the moment (Carpe Diem? Which, until yesterday, I thought meant "God is a goldfish.") I did this fancy Latin thing by rushing into Georgio's place on Madison Avenue (unnoticed). But dare I leave with a coveted, unaffordable pantsuit under my arm? Too risky for a first try, I decide. Besides, there were those noisy little white gizmos that scream for help when they find themselves alone on the street with a stranger.

Walking into a museum without paying the "suggested" donation seemed a better start. I could work my way up from there. I chose the Whitney, a few blocks up Madison Avenue. Their Black Male show turned out to be a fortuitous first choice; it's about invisibility after all. I strode in, walking boldly walked past the formidable-looking guard (whom, you'll note, I noticed) and up to the third floor where I joined a tour group. The guide, looking right through me, launched into a discussion of Fred Wilson's "Guarded View," four headless black mannequins alleged to symbolize the invisibility of museum guards few of whom she said were white. (Tell that to someone other than an invisible, middle-aged white woman about to embark on a life of crime, I thought.)

Eventually I joined a number of other voyeurs in front of Robert Mapplethorpe's photographs of a muscular black man with the largest penis I'd ever seen. Two teenage girls, one in end-stage pregnancy, were transfixed in front of the full frontal view. Mouth agape, the pitiful mother-to-be had undoubtedly been inseminated by a far less impressive injection device: you could see the unabashed wonder on her face. Next time she'd choose more carefully. Why throw your future away on a moment of insignificance when there's equipment out there that can knock your socks off? Museums do educate after all. I tried to pass this revelation along to the person on my right who, unfortunately, didn't notice me.

Of course I had to quantify the degree of my invisibility, which appeared inconsistent at best. For example, stepping out of a Bentley conferred immediate visibility, especially when I was on the arm of a famous actor. Short skirts, black stockings and high heels elicited a moderate amount of attention. So did golden sable (albeit not the kind of attention a person of my sensibilities would ever want). A list of things to avoid was beginning to evolve. To begin with, Bentleys, famous escorts, short skirts, black stockings, high heels, and golden sable were all out of the question. I vowed to give all these things up, at least for the time being. After all, I'm determined to make a greater impact on the world in the second half of my life than I did in the first. Or, at the least to have more fun trying.

My most successful outfit was a combination of faded jeans, dark sweater, sneakers and a nondescript navy jacket. (I noticed that many black people wear a similar outfit. Perhaps dress underlies at least part of their perceived invisibility. I make a note to pass this potentially important observation onto a sociologist. But no time for others now, I have to follow my dream.)

Crime would have to wait -- first a little well-earned revenge. An exceptionally unlikable editor would be my first target. Knowing she was out of town I went to her office, glided unseen past the receptionist and went in. On went the computer. I scrambled her files, making a note to come back and watch the inevitable fireworks when she discovered the mischief. This first criminal incursion was so easy it emboldened me.

Unfortunately, revenge, no matter how sweet, isn't profitable. I needed to focus and made a list of possible targets, it was short:

• Banks
• Upscale stores
  • Tiffany's
  • Georg Jensen
  • Bergdorfs
  • Tse
  • Saks

Banks seemed a little beyond my present skill level, but shopping… shopping, there I was a pro. Besides, I knew these stores like the back of my hand. Moreover, money I'd already spent in them lessened the guilt a little. (Surely I'd harden with experience.)

Donning my cloak of invisibility, the carefully chosen jeans and sneaker outfit, I set off for Tiffany's. Walking passed the guard at the door I snapped my fingers, he didn't notice at all. Good sign.

I watched coldly as highly visible, well dressed women and their escorts fingered the merchandise, choosing this and that. Nothing that really took my fancy. Then I spotted my target! A diamond tennis bracelet sitting on the counter unattended as a highly visible blonde in a spectacular Dolce & Gabbina pant suit tried on matching earrings. I put out my hand and slowly wrapped my invisible fingers around the bracelet. Then suddenly, very suddenly, I materialized. All eyes turned. Thinking fast, I smiled winningly, pulled out an American Express card and said: "I'll take this please." That was a close call. Obviously, a change of strategy was needed. I could have bought something in Tiffany's wearing a more suitable Tse sweater and pant outfit. Why go to all the trouble of dressing down just to buy some diamonds?

The new strategy? Next installment.