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IT CAN BE FUN
TO BE INVISIBLE |
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I got attacked by a dermatologist last week. He seemed like a
nice fellow, giving me friendly advice about wearing sunscreen, and then
he shot me in the face with liquid nitrogen multiple times.
"You're going to look kind of rough for about a week or
so," he said as I attempted to recover from the onslaught. "But
once the scabs fall off, you'll look as good as new."
A lot of people might have gone into hiding, but not me. I
bounced out of his office in a fine mood. Not only had I done the right
thing by burning off some non-cancerous keratoses from my face, but I
would be able to test my theory that after 64 years of life, I had become
invisible.
It's an age thing. I wasn't always invisible. The first time
I noticed it was on a family trip to Ireland and Spain, about 10 years
ago. I was with my sons, who were 18 and 19 at the time, and we went to
some of the famous bars in Dublin for a beer or two.
"Check it out," I remember saying to my sons as we
wandered through the crowds in the bar, which were jam-packed with guys
and girls no older than 29. "No one can see me."
"We'll catch you later," one of them replied,
ditching me as quickly as they could. "Can we have some cash?"
They couldn't see me, either. Their eyes were scanning the
room, searching for something far more interesting.
I looked left, and I looked right. Everyone was wandering
past me. My simple, innocent goal was to make eye contact with someone.
Anyone.
But it was impossible. I was invisible. It didn't matter if
my target was male or female---I tried with both, but it was as if I
didn't exist. They would walk by me and I would look into their eyes, only
to be met with vacant stares. And they weren't staring at me.
When my wife and the rest of my family joined us a few days
later, I couldn't wait to tell her that I had become invisible. She didn't
believe me, and I remember the conversation well.
"I can see you just fine," she said. "But then
again, I'm not 25 years old."
"Are you suggesting that I'm only invisible to younger
people?" I asked, wondering if she might be on to something.
"What are you doing hanging around bars, anyway?"
she answered. "You're getting too old for that."
"I wanted to see if I was truly invisible. And there
were some older people there. They didn't see me, either."
"That's because they were looking at all the young
people," she explained.
Maybe. We moved on to Madrid, and I decided to test my theory
in public, and in daylight. I was wandering near our hotel and I saw an
attractive young woman in a red dress standing near a doorway. As I walked
by, I nodded a hello and looked into her eyes. She avoided my
glance. I was invisible.
When I got back to our hotel, my wife mentioned that someone
told her the surrounding area was a bit of a red-light district.
I thought about the attractive woman in the red dress, and it
dawned on me. I no longer had any doubt about my invisibility. I couldn't
even get eye contact from a sex worker!
How sad is that? I explained it to my wife, and she still
wasn't convinced. "Try making eye contact with an older sex worker
next time," she said with a sigh. "You'll feel better."
Since I haven't been to any young and hip bars since that
trip to Europe, I haven't thought much about my invisibility. But the
attack from the dermatologist last week brought back all the memories. It
was time to put my theory to the test once again.
Sure enough, I rolled into work the next day and no one said
a word about my scab-ridden face. I went to a holiday party a couple of
nights later and there wasn't a peep. No one noticed. I was invisible.
30 or 40 years ago, I would have been asked by almost
everyone, "What happened to your face?" But the older you get,
the more invisible you become.
That's my theory, and I'm sticking to it. I realize it makes
no sense, and people probably didn't say anything because they thought I
might have a rare disease or something, but pretending I'm invisible is a
lot more fun.
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