May 17, the invisible woman

A frequent and justified complaint of "women of a certain age" is the fact that, at some point in the maturing process, they become invisible. It is particularly the regret of those for whom looking good, being admired and courted, however innocently, was a customary experience of youth. Those who used, upon entering the proverbial room, to be taken note of and hopefully spoken to. In other words, those who neither enjoyed nor preferred the anonymity of being one of the crowd.

The day comes, for most of us, when entering a room, from the restaurant, to the Future Shop, to the garage, ceases to be a comfortable activity. Catching the eye of the waiter, of the sales person, of the mechanic, be they man or woman, becomes a challenge. After a few such trials, the woman undergoing them finally, painfully realizes she has entered the ranks of the invisible. It takes another few years to actually get used to this condition and thoroughly forget how things used to be. Fortunately this act of forgetting is quite thorough, a process of amnesia smoothing over the pleasures one secretly harbored when one was taken note of.

There is one parallel experience to that of having a remarkable or remarked exterior appearance. It is that of speaking with an accent. That is, speaking with some approximation the language of the land, and particularly of that land immigrants have somehow chosen to avoid. That is true especially if one is not a visible minority. For her the surprise of the addressee shows its full weight. Yet the comparison between striking appearance and accented speech stops here. For nothing pleasant can emanate from people who seem to suffer physically when exposed to words pronounced in a different manner than the one they are used to.

One of my aunts, whose 92 birthday is tomorrow, warned my father early. I was probably not yet 14 when she told my father his daughter liked to be looked at. Not that he needed warning. Curiously enough though, my father, the very soul of  Balkan paternal rigor, was not exactly displeased with this form of theatricality. While his right of veto was brought to bear upon most, if not all things a 14 year old girl would like to do, he was not against miniskirts, high platform shoes, light blue sunglasses which he himself procured for me on the black market. He took some pride in those jealous gazes coming in my direction from one and all. And since he allowed for so few liberties, I grabbed this one with both hands and run with it.

During my now customary visits to Toronto, I like to take the subway and people watch. The other day a woman let me know she liked my gloves. She then looked me over and said my glasses were to her liking also, as well as my skirt. Finally, the whole outfit agreed with her esthetic judgement. Had I done that on purpose? Yes, I said, although caught by surprise by a question which normally would have me burst out laughing. Of course I had done it on purpose. All right, she retorted, it was all right to do such things. Her meaning, I suppose, that it was all right to spend one's time thinking about matters of little import like these.

From the corner of my eye I appraised her after, trying to figure her out too. About my age, maybe a bit older, carefully but conservatively dressed. It is almost a rule, that I get compliments from conservatively attired women, those who let me know, one way or another, that they would like to take such liberties as I do with their outward appearance, but of course cannot. For serious people with problems on their mind, it is out of question.

A few minutes later, still intrigued, she came back asking where I had bought those gloves I was wearing. Brown with white polka dots, driving gloves. Was I using them for driving? Yes. They come from Boston. And the skirt? It is German. The glasses? They're French, but I bought them right here in Toronto. All these items come from somewhere, of course, it used to be a habit of mine, in the days when I was traveling, to buy certain things which would remind me of the pleasure of that particular voyage. (I will not say that particular conference, although that may be true too.) Right, she finished, while stepping out the door of the train, but Boston, which she had visited a long time ago, was a city she did not like. People there were not friendly, maybe because of ethnic rifts.

I refrained from analyzing this last remark and in the evening, looking at the events of the day, I texted Colin and asked why it was that women only declared their liking for my outward appearance and not men? Colin's answer: men were afraid such a gesture would be taken for an uncalled for advance.

The next day I took the train in the opposite direction. I was carrying some bags and when a seat presented itself I took it quickly. As soon as I sat down the man to my right looked me straight in the eye, smiled and said something, at the same time as I smiled back and excused myself, calling the bag I was carrying by its name: Leonidas chocolates. Because he was rather heavy set, I had automatically taken for granted that he, of the kind smile, would like chocolates.

Very soon though I realized his comment had to do with my glasses. I thanked him and he pursued: one has to acknowledge every day what one admires. In a beautiful turn of phrase I unfortunately cannot quite reproduce. I felt fortunate to be his object of admiration on this day and sat quiet and slightly mesmerized. He was reading a book on loan from the library. Was casually dressed and  did not have, as I said already, the body of an ambitious young man, but rather, of a middle aged who spends many hours either at a desk, or reading.

I could not not expose to him, in a few words, the other day's conundrum. That, insofar as chance encounters are concerned, for a long time now, and until I met him, it had been women only who had given me the gift of a compliment. He answered right away, as if prepared, and, with the same gentle yet quite more animated expression, said simply that men were cowards. And added that my smile was even more lovely than my glasses. After which his station came up, and we said good bye.

Yet, what felt particularly good in these ephemeral encounters was the fact that neither of these two strangers was surprised or befuddled to hear me speak as I do. They did not retreat in shock upon hearing my speech, as if too close to the mouth of a fire blower, reaction I have become accustomed to provoke here in the Hastings county. Neither were they confused by the riddle of my words. They understood what I said and were at ease with continuing the conversation, I dare say even regretful to abandon it, without asking those questions which people who do not befriend the immigrant species feel compelled to ask. Like for instance: how come, that after more than thirty years in Canada, you still have such a thick accent?

Let us say that the thick accent, and the unusual combination of disparate articles of clothing, belong together. It has been somewhat of an awakening, to meet these people who, in different ways, exercised their duty, compulsively or self-imposed, to express admiration when an object engaged them. I have wondered whether I myself could not follow the lesson of my unknown bookish friend, and try to do the same as consistently as my courage will allow me.