Navigating the Perils of Midlife Visibility
Sweat, sights, and the surprise of 50
I hopped off the treadmill and noticed a man waving at me from a stationary bike. Well, more summoning than waving.
He had to be my dad’s age, maybe older, definitely north of 75. Wisps of hair stretched over a mostly bald head, and he was dressed in a bright blue tracksuit and sunglasses. His look screamed Sopranos, not suburban community center.
I glanced back at him, still motioning me. The shiny blue fabric of his jacket hung off his waving arm. He just sat there, not pedaling.
Did I know him? Did he live on my street? Was he a friend of my parents? I walked over — still listening to the celebrity memoir that got me through my run — and pulled out one of my earbuds.
“You sure do run a lot,” he said. “Usually, you’re here a lot earlier, though. Do you run all day? What are you training for?”
He’d been watching me? Rivers of sweat ran through my scalp and down my face.
I dredged up a smile that I hoped would take the place of an actual response and stepped away, telling him to have a nice day.
I’ve heard that women over 50 don’t get attention.
From TV and movies to news and social media, our invisibility is a more common refrain than anything I might want to know about middle age, like menopause, empty nesting, or how to find a decent pair of jeans.
So far, all I know is that 50 feels different, lighter. I’ve shed the weight of parenting teenagers. I’ve packed up the anxiety from the toddler years — though surely I’ll use that again one day. I’ve smoothed over the sleeplessness of mothering infants.
And, the harness of work hangs a lot looser than it once did, which definitely increases my mobility.
The scent of Irish Spring made me look up — probably for the same reason people use it to keep deer and rabbits out of their gardens. I was three miles into my run and just a few clues short of solving the murder in the audiobook I was listening to. Once I’m on a machine and into a story, I build an invisible privacy fence around my personal space. But the smell wafted right through it.
A man 20-some years my senior was standing right next to my treadmill, looking at me. The faux woodsy, citrusy scent hung off him like a fog. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back. He had a matching Tom Selleck mustache, wore neon pink running shorts, and stood way too close to my treadmill.
He waited there like a blissfully full diner who wanted a moment with the chef. With only a mile to go, I wasn’t going to stop running. I hoped that if I avoided eye contact, he would walk away. When that didn’t work, I popped out an earbud.
“Are you training for a marathon? You run a lot,” he said.
Why was this happening?
The gym had 16 treadmills. A lot of people ran a lot here. What was it about me, running by myself, clearly listening to something on my phone, staring blankly into space, that made this man think I wanted to talk?
“I used to run ten miles a day outside, year-round,” he said. “But then a car hit me on a run — didn’t even stop to see if I was ok. Doctor said I wouldn’t walk again. Yet here I am.”
Oh, wow. Right to the big stuff.
I didn’t know how to react to a total stranger blithely telling me a traumatic story. I’m also not used to talking while I run.
He pointed at his offensively pink shorts. “Been wearing these since 1978. My daughter says they’re embarrassing. But she’s got vision problems related to her MS, so she can’t really see them anymore.”
Maybe he was trying to be funny. That’s what I do with things that are too heavy to hold. But I couldn’t laugh, right?
He talked through my final mile. At the end of my 5-minute cooldown, he was still going. I now know his name, how long he’s been a widow, which medical clinic he drives his daughter to, why the treadmill squeaks when he runs on it, how many surgeries he’s had on his hip and leg, who his physical therapist is and why I should start seeing her.
Where was that invisibility cloak I’d been promised?
Most of my friends hit the big 5–0 before me. At that time, I was more caught up in the birthday itself.
How does one walk into the second half of their life? Being the lurker that I am, I watched each friend approach and then cross this massive threshold in their own way. Some strolled, some flew, some were dragged. Some did it with balloons, confetti, and custom cookies. Some did it on an airplane en route to a milestone-worthy destination. Some did it while social distancing.
As usual, I went to bed wearing my mouthguard the night before my birthday. I woke up a little achy, as usual. But just like the 12-year-old me who wondered if I looked different after getting my first period, I wondered if others saw a change in me at mid-century. Had I faded overnight? Was I less visible?
My bunions were bothering me. Rather than pound them into the treadmill's running deck, I got on an elliptical machine. Earbuds in. Book on. Attention diverted. Thirty-two minutes later, I glanced up to find a man I’d never seen before standing in front of my machine, looking at me.
He was 85, if a day. Shortish. Roundish. And he wore the polo shirt, belted jeans, and white sneaker uniform of the older half of the senior contingent that hangs out in the weight room. These are the folks for whom just coming to the community center is exercise.
I was listening to a funny romance novel. He talked to me, beaming at me as if we were sharing a moment.
I removed an earbud. “Sorry, what?”
“Good morning!” he said.
I waited for more. Nothing.
“Good morning,” I said and popped my earbud back in. That’s when he got on the machine next to me. Never mind that all the other machines in the row were empty.
I only had eight minutes left in my workout. When it ended, I headed to the stretching area to cool down. He followed me — the way my kids did when they were little and thought everything I did was exciting.
So far, I find 50 confusing.
Why am I being noticed all of a sudden? Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? I’ve been waiting my turn for the disappearing act I am supposed to perform, but instead of fading away, I think I accidentally just let go.
Turning 50 was a waking, not a waning.
Not just that I have less life ahead of me than behind, but that no one’s analyzing me, not the way I thought they were. No one — but me — sees the me I see. Not the extra frizz in my hair. Not the new spots on my skin. Not the way my shoulders droop down more than they used to.
Turning 50 was freeing, and I think maybe it shows.
Karen Scholl is a writer and recovering soccer mom living the dream in a flyover state. Her humor book Surviving Soccer: A Chill Parent’s Guide to Carpools, Calendars, Coaches, Clubs, and Corner Kicks is forthcoming from Triumph Books.
