A few months ago I woke up, sighed, stretched, scratched, looked down, and discovered I was wearing tights. Bright green tights. They sparkled in the light. I felt a little burst of joy, just shy of giddiness. I wish I could say I bounced out of bed, but it was more of a heave followed by a creak, a groan, more scratching, and a slow amble to the bathroom. I needed to see these tights in the mirror. They did not disappoint. There I was in all my puffy-faced, hair-in-a-tangle, middle-aged morning gloriousness. And I was glowing from head to toe. I was red and tangled and stinky and wonderful. I was beautiful. And then I saw it. I’ll be damned. The tights came with a cape! Shimmery and flowing — a big gold S on the back.
You see, I am 51. I am officially too old to be young, and too young to be old. I am no longer asked about my marital status, my current or future children, or my sex life. No one presses me for 5- and 10-year career plans. No one asks if I need help with my bags, or stares too long at not-my-face. I’m neither carded or called ma’am. In truth, I have reached a perfect stage of beige. Vanilla. Mayonnaise. My skin actually matches my hair. I was warned for years this was coming. The internet silently screams the irrelevance of middle age. I watched my parents go through it. But I just found out it came with a prize.
I have super powers now. Lots of them. New ones seem to be show up every day. Some are more interesting than others. For instance, I can sometimes be invisible in public. Really! I can walk through a busy convention center, or a city street, or a concert hall, and not one person will make eye contact with me. Sometimes they try to walk through me only to find that I am indeed matter occupying space. The look of consternation… of annoyance… of fear, even! And can I tell you something? I like it a lot. Maybe too much.
I’ve observed that my power of invisibility increases in direct proportion as the median age in any given space decreases. It’s especially notable at bars, concerts, and Trader Joe’s. I can glide through a space unnoticed, grab objects, slink through racks, stand at counters for minutes on end, a clerk or bartender standing right in front of me, and nada. Nothing. No words exchanged. I can walk into a restaurant, sit at a table, and not have to talk to a single server, often maintaining my cover until I leave unobserved, and unfed, 20 minutes later. I can walk through a grocery aisle with a full cart where a small herd of teenagers can stand right in front of me, unaware of either me or the cart until I ram into the center, sending bodies flying.
I have noticed, however, that my invisibility powers decrease in car lots, street corners occupied by petition signature solicitors, and most of Wallowa County. They are completely useless against my beasties, close friends, and my mom.
Interestingly, my visual opacity seems to be offset by the superpower that is now my voice. Its range and reach are formidable. Sometimes I see people actually start at its breadth, its tone, its inflection. Who knew that I could step up to a podium or sit down at a keyboard and let words fly, worlds fly. My superpower words have force. They have impact. Sometimes they create unintended realities.
Words are weapons. They can cut, scar, destroy. Words are also balm, warm hands, fields of flowers. Words can be deceitful and loving and fearful and comforting. They are music. They are present in the sound and the silence, with the latter often carrying a power even more terrible. This superpower requires thoughtfulness when deploying or withholding letters and commas and periods. Exclamation points should be used sparingly if at all. Adverbs come in many lipstick shades that are often applied to pig lips. Verbs are drivers— active, angry, loving, and deadly. Be judicious with pronouns. Make sure you’re aware whose thoughts are whose. Never use them to tell another’s story without their permission.
Next? I know how, and finally, when to apologize. This is no small thing for a woman.
I claim my space now. I make no more apologies for what I am and am not. I am not my job. I am not my marital status. I am not my bra size or shoe size or hair color. I am not my gender. I am not my height. I am not what you see on the outside. I am no longer making myself smaller in any sense of the word for anyone else. I am complicated. I am not stupid. My ideas merit consideration.
I am not perfect. I am often wrong. I am no longer afraid to apologize when it’s needed, deserved. My apologies are no longer driven by my need to feel better. My apologies are rooted in truth and kindness and a desire to do better, be better. To respect relationships. My apologies now carry weight.
My next superpower might be my favorite. I now have the ability to say No. Loudly. Confidently. Kindly. No is precious to me. No is the white picket fence around my herb garden. The blanket on my sofa. The moat around my castle. At times, No is the crocodile swimming in the moat. Sometimes No is a throat lozenge. Or a warm fire. Netflix. A bourbon and a purring cat.
No can also be a pitchfork, a torch, a screaming mob. No, when used as the only play in the book kills creativity. This No fears change. It hates new things. It cowers and quivers. It builds walls and points out “others” and divides communities. Knowing which No to use when is no small matter.
And this: I have the ability to hold, experience, believe, or communicate conflicting thoughts simultaneously. For instance, I can now be both hot and cold at the same time, especially at night. My top half and bottom half rarely need covers at the same time. There must always be a down comforter and an open window. I can also drive extremely fast and not be in a hurry. Be hungry and not want any food. I embrace my inner contrarian. She allows me to watch documentaries on the Hanoverians while Simon the Cat pops bubbles on my iPad. She tells me it’s amazing that I love Spanish and Mediterranean food, but can’t stand olives or melons. That it’s perfectly acceptable to spend 20 minutes on a Saturday morning putting on makeup and primping and then putting on a fresh pair of PJs.
This newly discovered superpower also comes with the ability to hold two diametrically opposed beliefs in my mind at the same time. For example, I am not a superstitious person. I don’t believe in ghosts, goblins, demons, poltergeists, or faerie spirits. But if one of the Fishtrap gang leaves the basement door open in my office, I am fully aware that a previous occupant of the 100 year old house may feel free to come up for a visit. And that if I don’t tell the beasties to have a good day when I leave the my house in the morning, they will tear something up, do something biologically disgusting, or die. It’s a fact.
I can trust science. Read the latest. Stay informed. And come to the wrong conclusion. I can ignore the data. Trust my gut. Defy logic. And be brilliant. And still wrong. It’s a gorgeous mess.
I can also fully embrace that good and evil are most often deeds, not people. Good people can and often do bad things. People can love you and disappoint you at the same time. I can hold you in my heart and not talk to you for years. I can see you every day and not notice that you are hurting. I can create a fantasy about stabbing a politician in the butt with a pitchfork, and still search for connection, empathy, or find someone to pull his car out of the irrigation ditch. Complexity, and humanity, are simultaneously beautiful and awful.
Final superpower. This is a good one. I know more than I’ve ever known before. I’m comfortable with my knowing. I even know about the Dunning-Kruger effect. I like knowing things. I like finding new things to know about. Here’s some stuff I know:
I know how to fry a sunny-side up egg with a runny yoke and no egg boogers. (You know what I’m talking about.)
I know how to spatchcock a turkey.
I know how to identify several types of salvia in a cottage garden.
I know how to house break a puppy.
I know how to set up a wifi network.
I know how to build a web page.
I know how to build a team.
I know how to change a tire. I also know how to convince someone else to change it for me.
I know how to teach a 10-year old to play trombone or play a roll on a snare drum.
I know my limits, physical and emotional.
I know it’s often necessary, if not easy, to ask for help.
I know the people who care about me like being asked.
I know change is inevitable.
I know my time is limited, and even harder, so is the time of everyone and everything I love.
I know that I don’t know much about most things. And nothing at all about things I don’t even know I don’t know.
And I know it’s perfectly fine, often advisable, to admit out loud that I don’t know.
I came across this quote today:
I’m glad my second chance came with tights and a cape.