I Embraced the Cloak of Invisibility, but It Wasn't There

A friend recently complimented me on my shirt, a fleece pull-on. “That teal is a really nice color on you,” he said.

I smiled and thanked him—who doesn't love being flattered? But, underneath, I thought: Wait, what? I’m supposed to be invisible. It starts at 50, I’ve heard, and I’m enough beyond that I should be but a faint outline perched on my kitchen chair by now. I was counting on being invisible. This bias against aging was working for me. And now he says he not only sees me, but he notices what I’m wearing? This seriously interferes with the philosophy I’ve tried hard to adopt: Nobody cares what I wear so I don't care what they think about what I wear.

Another friend mentioned the flattering fleece a few days later. Then, the other night, still another friend told me her husband had commented on the outfit I’d worn at a meeting he and I attended. He described it for her—a sweatshirt in a fluffy, nubby fabric and pants that were “nice, but looked comfortable.” He said it was the kind of outfit she was looking for—cozy yet appropriate. Her response: “I know that sweatshirt." Many people know that sweatshirt. It spends little time in the closet. I am wearing it now.

It seems people are watching me. Nice people. Saying nice things. Truly lovely. But I’d found comfort in my relaxed definition of my place in the world, so this is confusing.

The cloak of invisibility I had been embracing left me free not only to dial down my fashion choices a bit, but also to wear the same thing more than once. Or often. Maybe a few times less than always. (I wore the teal yesterday and will likely wear it tomorrow.)

Humorist Wendi Aarons writes about tackling middle age by hiding her body in long, oversized tops in I’m Wearing Tunics Now. OK, but I’ve moved on from tunics. I’m into sweatshirts now. I seldom even wear jeans—too confining. They have waists.

I used to enjoy dressing up—I had a favorite pair of go-go boots in the '60s, a Laura Ashley look in the '80s, Eileen Fisher pantsuits in the aughts. I liked clothes and, if they were a little uncomfortable, so be it. I looked good. When I thought about gender it was only to think men were missing out—their only choice was the color of their tie.

When I retired, I’d hoped to wear sweats all the time, but I got sidetracked. I still bought cute outfits that required sturdy underthings that either pushed me out or tucked me in as socially acceptable. A mastectomy seven years ago after triple-negative breast cancer eliminated my need for a bra, but I usually wore one anyway to keep my profile perky and proud.

I didn't have much choice about what I had to wear, though. Retailers offered either tailored pants or saggy, dumpy sweats, with tight, revealing tops. But the pandemic, bless its evil killing heart, at least brought us better clothing options. I now can swath my bottom in pants that neither sag nor pull and, best of all, have elastic waists. And pockets! Pair them with sweatshirts and nobody should ever wear anything else. Want to dress up more? Add pearls.

I’ve lost the need to look professional or fancy or cool. Hell, I’m cool all on my own. And I just don't have the energy to care about the right outfit anymore.

While I never felt at risk of invisibility, I was willing to take it as a gift if it was available. Anything that allows breathable clothing. And the dear people in my life notice and appreciate my efforts to be presentable. Those who notice with less appreciation keep it to themselves.

As with everything, choice makes the difference. I choose to be more in the background, to wear whatever goes with supportive shoes. I also feel privileged that, when I have something to say, people still listen to me, no matter what I wear. I do look good in teal, though, and in fluffy. nubby sweatshirts. Expect to see me in them a lot. But without the pearls.