Every woman hits a time in her life when she suddenly becomes invisible. I am at that age.
Except yesterday. I was walking down the street, not looking like a mum for a change, and a young guy wearing too much aftershave stopped talking to his mate as he watched me approach and pass him by.
It was sort of flattering: that I can still stop a conversation and even more flattering knowing that they weren’t drunk.
I don’t want to brag, but I spent many years resenting being objectified when I walked past building sites. When wolf whistles were banned in the early 1990s, they resorted to comments or loud discussions about ‘that’s a cute rear’ and it took everything I had not to turn around and glare at them. Or they’d talk loudly about asking for my phone number and laugh if I turned around.
Pubs with open windows still worry me. I hated that feeling that I was being stared at by tradies or cane cutters (Bundaberg) as I walked. They have this not-so-subtle way of nudging their mates and lifting a finger from the glass to point at the chick (me) walking off to a meeting at the local paper.
Objectification wasn’t limited to builders or blue collar* workers. I went to meet the editor of the local paper once and he had a series of male staff come through to bring him things because he though they all should get a glimpse of the latest eye candy to come to town.
By the time I was 27 I’d learned to ignore them. So by yesterday, I didn’t realise they’d stopped.
I read Emma Jane’s piece on why she collects images of women who are not thin, and I sympathise with how she is feeling about the world and how women are portrayed.
I too became fat when I had a child, but through sheer stupid fasting, I am now merely overweight, rather than a poster child for Australia’s spiralling obesity epidemic. Gym for me is about getting some movement in my very still life. That, and a fear of osteoporosis.
But there comes a time, when women are invisible. Or if they feel visible and getting a snicker or a nudge from the guy holding the beer in the window, there’s bound to be something wrong. Is my skirt up my pants from when I went to the toilet? Did I put my shirt on inside out? Do my shoes match? Am I wearing shoes and not slippers?
Valid questions for the sleep deprived mother.
Talking to one of my more naturally beautiful friends – except she’s had a boob job and Botox – she admits that now she is happy if she can leave the house with brushed hair and in clothes without baby vomit.
Having spent a few minutes reading women’s magazines over the years, I was always amazed at how ungrateful those actresses were who complained there were no roles for older women. I get their point now.
Female newsreaders used to be axed or boned (horrible term) when they hit a magic age. Did Mary Kostakidas break that hex? Because Kay McGrath on Channel 7 Brisbane seems to have been here since I was at school.
Whatever it is. I like the idea that I can slip quietly through life now without attracting attention, or getting that creepy feeling I’m being watched, rated and judged.
Yes. I’m now happy that I get out of the house with matching shoes, not slippers.
* Blue collar workers – while I’ve used this term, many cane cutters in Bundaberg didn’t wear shirts, let alone ones with collars. The local doctor told me once that the weirdest place he had found a melanoma was on the testicle of a farmer. He had a tendency to throw on a pair of stubbies and nothing else and drive the tractor with one foot propped up, letting the… er… elements in. I leave it open for you all to make your own slip slop slap jokes.
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