I’ve reached another milestone in life. It was bound to happen. It’s a biological reality. Doesn’t make it any easier to take. I have been rendered invisible to young women.
Can’t say as I am handsome, never was, but at least women would take a look, check me out. Occasionally a few would even flirt with me, an act that does wonders for one’s ego. No more. Old men don’t have egos.
It’s not because I am married, either. I don’t always wear my wedding ring because it hurts me when I carry a briefcase, which is often. And anyway it never stopped them before.
Now, as I fade away — less hair and what I have is getting lighter and lighter — women tend to look through me. As if I weren’t there. I am a jogger, a customer, a fellow shopper whose cart is simply in their way. They look at the cart, but they don’t look at me.
I guess I have become seen as an asexual being. Trouble is that inside I still feel 23 or 33, certainly not 63. I look at women, even much younger women, no differently than I did in my salad days.
To them, however, I apparently don’t exist. This is the real inconvenient truth. I know I am not missing anything, but it would be nice to not be invisible.