Invisible Woman

So this morning I am playing Fantastic Four. My grandson says I can be the Invisible Woman – I’m a woman, she’s a woman so it makes sense to him and, I am thinking, how appropriate is that? I am feeling invisible a lot these days.

“So?” I ask. “What can I do if I’m the Invisible Woman?”

You can be invisible, he tells me. You can make invisible boulders. But you can’t lift them. You have to get Thing to move them for you. He explains that Thing has superpowers and is much stronger than I am.

My brother, apparently, is the Human Torch, a somewhat hideous apparition that can burst into flames and fight with fire and super strength.

Then he drops another bombshell. I am married to someone called Mr. Fantastic. Fantastic, I think. Mr. Fantastic and Invisible Me, pretty much the story of my life.

But that’s being a little harsh and not entirely fair. It’s difficult being married to a person whose chosen career garners attention, often unwanted, but there just the same. It’s difficult carving out a personal visibility while standing in the shadow of circumstance but I managed. Mr. Fantastic and I found a balance that works.

And then I became a woman “of a certain age”. Receptionists, sales persons and check out clerks call me dear. I cringe. Others talk around me and pat my hand. My grey hair stands on end.

Society in general treats women over sixty like generic geriatrics and I resent it. I am not feeble, I am not stupid and I am not absent minded – at least no more than I’ve ever been – so at what point did I become relegated to the back of the bus? Sixty seems to be a significant turning point.

Call me crone, call me bitch, call me wise woman, but don’t call me dear. I’m not answering. Oh, and next time I want to be She Hulk or Cat Woman.