All That

 A little bit about body issues today. You have been warned!

Let's talk a little about something slightly strange/unusual that bookended the trip to Oceanside. It involves... being Visible. 

Incident One happened en route from the Oceanside airport to Cherished Friend's abode. We were in some fairly standard evening traffic, and while slowed down, a nondescript Jeep driven by a middle-aged man pulled up alongside us.  I generally pay very little attention to other drivers, but this one was -- how can I put it? -- making eyes at me. Positioning his Jeep in his lane so as to get a better look. 

What the everloving hell? 

Incident Two happened the last evening I was in Oceanside. We were walking back to the car after dining in a restaurant, going up the ramp into the parking garage, and a middle-aged man was walking down the ramp. Even I, as oblivious as I generally am, had the distinct feeling that he was... ogling me. 

Good Gravy!

There is not much disguising my cup size, this we know. But, as that sound byte on TikTok goes, "am I showing OFF my boobs? Or do I just HAVE boobs, and exist?"  I, and my boobs, clearly Just Exist.

Let's contextualize further: neither time was I wearing anything particularly revealing (and the man of Incident One couldn't even see much of me except for what was visible through the car window) or noteworthy. I'm doing my best to keep my "I turned 55" haircut done properly, but beyond that and occasional lipstick, there's not a whole lot going on here. 

I'm accustomed to moving through life unnoticed. So why, when I have felt invisible for YEARS, were strange men of Oceanside perceiving me?

It was disconcerting. 

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I'm struggling with middle-aged-body-image issues right now, exacerbated by the very unpleasant recent surgery and the ongoing chronic migraine pain and the extra pounds that I have not shed despite (albeit mediocre) efforts. When I turned 55, I inwardly decided that my Last F*ckable Day had passed, and resigned myself to Crone-dom: be neat and tidy and dress reasonably well, and don't expect any attention, because Those Days Are Gone. (Let it go. But don't let yourself go.)

I was more or less OK with that. So I don't know how to fit these two Incidents into the whole picture.

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In Days Of Yore when I was young and thin and shapely and taut, my female peers and I would talk about being desired for our brains --  to be wanted for our intelligence, our thoughts, our emotions, our selves, independent of the bodies in which we resided. That was the goal: to be completely loved, for what was inside as well as outside. 

Then time passed and I left my thirties (and then my forties) in the rear-view mirror, and everything gradually flipped on its head. I know now that my ability to work capably (on the whole) in mentally-rigorous fields is appreciated; that's gratifying. Society's emphasis on youth and beauty, though, dies hard: now I (and my female peers too, I would imagine, though we are too busy to spend time talking of such trifles) want to do it all, while somehow still being sexy. 

Realistically: that's not achievable. 

Isn't it? Is it?

And what do I really want, anyway?

I am not sure. 

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Perhaps I should just put the Incidents into a box labeled "Occasionally Visible," and leave it all at that. I don't have the wherewithal to contemplate the complexities further right now. 

I have to go blow dry my hair.