To the Limit

Waking up every morning feeling like I drank too much alcohol the day before, I am reminded I’m on the back side of my lifespan. In my twenties, I woke up and hit the ground running regardless of what I had done the day before. The aging body’s nightly routine of detoxing while we sleep is not as efficient. My recovery process and the ability to cleanse rather than absorb daily toxins leaves me with the hang over even though I do not drink.

Grateful to wake up alive, I take nothing for granted. I am proud of a life well lived and continue searching for meaning and a purpose. Choosing to take part actively every day, I say yes to opportunity.

Like bullet points on a checklist, my life tracks structurally. Picture an outline; I. Grow up, get married, raise my kids. II. Get an education, a good-paying job, financial security. III. Buy a house, make it a home, fill the rooms with love, laughter, and joy, IV. My forties, V. my fifties, and so on.

From birth to present times, I followed the outline. Roman numerals to identify the points. Capitol letters under the roman numerals with sub-points, and numbers and lowercase letters to form the lists with the details. A myriad of careers, a slew of unfortunate marriages, and mistakes too many to list. The lines on the grid mark and record the memorable events at every stage. Using the IMRAD formula, it appears I am in the last phase. Nothing left to do but gather the results, present my theories and open it up for discussion. I have documented and recorded my life. Take the final bow and step off the stage. I might as well disappear.

With all this composition in place, the rest should be easy, but I have a strange sensation that’s been building. The voice in my head is saying, now is not the time to rest on my presumed laurels.

In the restroom at the local gym, I wash my hands after working out and I see my reflection in the mirror. I have on no make-up and my facial features have disappeared. Not that one should wear foundation, shadow, or mascara when working out. My eyebrows move up and down as I get lost in the scrutiny. I should at least use a brow pencil so people who look at me might read my mood. My mood is of no consequence to others. I stand in front of the sink, rinsing off the soap and shake away the thoughts that make me think I am invisible.

The next session of exercisers has arrived and they are in full swing. Clanging weights and whirring of cardio machines serenades me as a walk from the back of the building to the front. Above the din of loud party music dropping from speakers attached to the vaulted ceiling, I hear the coaches working with their next clients. They focus on their job and not on a patron who has finished for the day.

After a workout, I sometimes go to the bookstore for a cup of coffee. I catch my reflection in the store-front glass wall when I enter the shop. Even I find my appearance shocking. My hair, which falls just below my ears when down, is up in a whale-spout ponytail on top of my head. The wild strands too short to be contained frame my face and match my often flighty personality. At twenty, this might be an appropriate look. On my daughter, I can venture to say it would be downright cute.

“What can I get for you?” The youngster smiles from behind the counter. Her eyes are kind and she doesn’t look right through me as some kids do.

“Decaf Americano,” I answer, though that is not what I want. They don’t make decaffeinated coffee by drip. I ask for heavy cream and the artificial sweetener.

“You got it,” the cashier says, forcing herself to be chipper.

The girl at the cash register relays my order to the two baristas pouring and mixing. I feel their eyes rolling, though I can only see the backs of their heads. I wonder which part of my order has insulted their sensibilities. Maybe it’s my attire, or the head of white hair, that elicits their supposed disdain.

I recognize one girl as the co-host of the romance book club. “Hi,” I say, “Destiny, right? From book club.”

“Hey,” she barely registers a glance.

Not important, say inside.

On the glass fronted surface of the display case with the many delectable goodies containing too much sugar and way too many grams of carbs, I get a glimpse of my reflection again. My clothes are baggy and worn out. Not unusual attire for someone exercising, but for me, this is how I always look. I do not put energy into my appearance these days. I am invisible.

“This is how it is when we get older,” I hear the thoughts in my head. “The sooner you accept that, the better off you will be.”

Moving off to the side, I stand by the table upon which is stacked featured books while Destiny prepares my drink. I envision one of my books sitting there with a little card that describes the content or a blurb about the author, me.

Since it opened a little over a year ago, this little bookstore and coffee house has represented hope and promise for me. They offer shelf space for consignment books written by indie authors. I have submitted my books.

Wanting to experience the comaraderie, I joined a few book reading clubs. I have a paid for an annual membership account which affords me a discount. To support both the store and fellow authors, I have taken part in author events and book signings.

For a year, I have been hoping that this book store would open for me the door to a literary world in which I long to be included. I have yet to get a foot through that door, metaphorically speaking.

“Suzanne!” the barista calls my name and places the cup on the counter. I scramble the dialog I’m hearing from my inner voice and return to the here and now. “Thanks,” I say, but the barista is already walking away.

I take a sip and nod at none of the three employees in particular, “Delicious as usual.” They collectively ignore my compliment. Perhaps what they’d rather I give them is a bigger tip.

The irritated expression on the only face that looks towards me tells me I am trying too hard.

Last week, the store held an inaugural author event; a spotlight gathering to showcase the work of local authors. Today I asked about the once a month event for which I had submitted my name by email when the store announced this new venue. I hadn’t heard, so I inquired. I found out my name is in the folder with the list of authors under consideration.

“That is great.” I say.

The girl doesn’t share my enthusiasm. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

I thanked the girl at the register for checking and wondered if I’d crossed over the line from a blip on the junior staff's radar to a nuisance. They are not overwhelmed with drink orders, but it’s obvious they no longer want to talk to me. Feeling embarrassed, I head for the door. Even with the news my name is in the ‘under consideration’ folder, and I am a step closer than I have ever been, I feel dismissed.

On the way home, I maneuver my Ford Ranger off the main highway and drive past a sheriff's vehicle. Unless doing something egregiously against the law, this little white mini-truck doesn’t even register in the eyes of the officers. Similar to how older individuals vanish from society’s sight, my pickup truck remains undetected by the Bushnell speed detection gun the officer holds up. Yet another reminder of how I am invisible.

The frustration in me is building. I want to push through the confines of my life’s outline. I should have flipped off the cop sitting in that patrol car. He might notice me then. I laugh a little at the thought. That would be something a teenager might do, but not a sixty-two-year-old woman. The laughter sparks a tingle inside. Not unlike a rebellious kid, I want to be noticed in a world that dismisses me at every turn. The moment to act out passes. Once again, I accept my invisibility.

The approaching stop sign brings more tingling. I could run it. I entertain the thought and envision myself sailing through. The inherent risks of blowing through an intersection regulated by a four-way stop sign don’t phase me. Mitigated by the low-speed limit on the roads, as well as the weather and traffic conditions, I have a good chance of sliding through unharmed. Yes, says the voice in my head. Run it!

Instead of downshifting, I move my left foot off the clutch pedal and throttle the pedal on the right. The intersection is clear, and the pickup responds as the front end rises to meet my expectations. The tingle inside grows as I glance both ways. No one else approaching the intersection as far as I can see. I feel the thud of my heart banging against the wall of my chest and wonder if I am still within the eyesight of the officer. The nose of my truck crosses the limit line and I have broken the law. The tingle grows into a contraction in my abdomen. I release the tension in my frame with a loud woo-hoo!

My battle cry continues to string out behind me as I realize if another car had been moving through, I still could have avoided hitting them. With an air of certainty, I check the rearview mirror and confidently conclude that the approaching cars pose no threat to the rear quarter panel.

Yee-haw! I exclaim at the top of my lungs as I roll through unscathed.

On the other side now, traveling at the proper speed, I check my rear-view mirror again. Nobody behind me. My Thelma and Louise moment passes unnoticed by the outside world, but inside I am thrilled. I am not just another cotton-topped senior in a nondescript vehicle.

Just as I thumbed my nose at the law, I am tossing out my life outline. No more staying with the prescribed formula. I am going to push right through the constraints and take it to the limit every time. Society be damned. I have earned my stripes and the best gift I can receive is the freedom of being invisible.