A few months back my partner and I decided to do a pizza night once a month, and check out some of the local places that had received some more than favorable reviews.

We consider ourselves “foodies” of a sort. So, we opted for a white pie with garlic and some veg. We paid online to make things easy. On arrival, we were met with well, I can only put it this way, “Cheerleaders”. Blonde, and way too perky for seven o’clock in the evening. But it was a new place for us, so we behaved, made small talk, looked around and complimented the rustic ambiance. And then…

Squeels of girlish laughter as a mustachioed forty-something sauntered through the door. “Brian!” (whispering, “he loves when we call him by his first name”).

Suddently, we were in the midst of a Three’s Company episode, with three Chrissy’s and no pizza, with Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility.

We asked, several times, when it would be ready. No response. We hung back at a table. It finally arrived with a now sullen cheerleader who’s attention had been callously stolen by us for our dinner.

Were we invisible?

We took the pizza home, and despite all the good reviews, it was soggy and cold. But THAT is another story.

We WERE invisible. How did that happen? WHEN did that happen? For me, I think perhaps somewhere after I turned fifty-five.

Let’s face it. I am not small. I am not quiet. In Kindergarten, our esteemed teacher aide, Mrs. Kennan told my mother, not quite discreetly, that I was “too bold”. To be honest, I may have been voted loudest in my class (I was in theatre – and yes, you may read, “drama queen”). Invisible, never.

A few days ago, I stepped up to the bank kiosk at the mall, and three boys, from about nine to eleven, rushed up in front of me to deposit their earnings in many, many, many one dollar bills.

“Excuse me?! I was about to do my banking.”

Blank, nanosecond stares. They quickly bgan their transactions. Huddled, they counted and continued their process.

“Boys…at the lobby or drive-up, one is usually allowed only three transactions.” My attempt at thwarting their plan has certainly failed. More huddling, more counting. Many, many deposit slips. Finally, business complete after fifteen minutes, they file out the door to a parent’s waiting minivan. Nary a glance of acknowledgement.

This is nw. Anonymous public dismissal. How exciting. To think of all the things that I can do now that no one really sees this almost sixty-year-old person. Let’s make a list:

Say outrageous things in public places. Oh, wait, I do that already.

Stop being polite in unpolite situations.

Call out stupidity. Yes, I used that word.

Be politically incorrect.

Talk to people who are maniacally texting or reading their cellphones in a room full of people who are also maniacally texting or reading their cellphones. Or walking down the side walk doing all of the above.

Hum. And then look around quizzically at another person nearby as if they were the one who was humming. And hum along.

It has been observed internationally that women at the average age of 52 begin to feel invisible. Apparently, I’ve wasted the last 8 years. For now, on the cusp of 60, I’m going to enjoy it.

Mary Oliver