I’m thinkin’ I’m invisible. Yup. Invisible. I drive a big black truck but no one sees me on the road. I go out to eat with my wife and get the humbling feeling that I’m making noises like the teacher from a Snoopy cartoon when I talk. And last night one of the shedders that I share my home with (under protest) ran headlong into my leg as I stood in the kitchen.
Invisible.
I’ve reached the not so enviable point in life where young people stare vacantly or roll their eyes when I talk, middle-agers tune me out, and short-timers crash into me when I stand patiently in checkout lines. No kidding, it’s as if when oldies reach the age of AARP, lime green spandex, and fear of bathing they lose all sense of spatial awareness. The other day I had a large heavy-breathing older fella stand so close behind me in line at the post office that I could feel his hot McDonalds breath on the back of my head. And I checked my wallet a few times because whatever he had in his hand – I’m hoping mail – kept touching the back of my pants.