Practicing invisibility

August 7, 2013

Being invisible, while in the middle of the entryway to a very busy work-out facility, is a strange phenomenon. Women, mostly in the upper age bracket, rounded where the waist should be, wearing pert, short, white hair, made their way past, to the open door, which lead to a series of exercise stations, and an animated social hour. They could not, would not, look at the table, decorated with stacks of books or the two larger-than-life women (one of which was me) seated directly behind the furniture. It is a practiced art, to avoid meeting the eye of a potential sale. Their grip was stingy and mean, “hello” abrupt and shallowly cordial. Sadly, the book signing turned out to be unimpressive today.

Wednesday is evidently ice cream day at Walker Methodist Campus. WM is an array of buildings that house seniors, of all incapacities, who evidently adore frozen dairy products. The one-foot-in-the-grave ladies are enthusiastically lining-up to get their flavor of the day. I wish I had time to join them but I had a demanding schedule to keep. No self-respecting executive-type would be caught in the assembly of q-tips with dripping ice cream cones. Sigh.

I will be forced to drink loads of caffeine to stay awake long enough to collect Taelor from the MSP airport at 12:11am. It is too late to plan a party, the only other obvious choice, while having to wait for the arrival time. The house is clean, laundry washed, folded and put away, cat boxes scooped, dog walked, resumes printed and ready to whisk off to the Job Fair tomorrow, oil change coupon folded in preparation for the garage service in the morning, bed sheets swapped and frig stocked. The animals know something big is happening but don’t seem to understand my long-winded explanation. I suppose they will be alerted soon enough.

Still no sign of the village that lives upstairs. I suspect they have departed for good though there is a tiny hot pink bike and roller blades on the back porch. It makes me sorrowful to think the kids are in a place where they miss using them. Unclaimed mail sits in the box on the stoop. It will eventually be discarded, along with all of the unspoken for notice-cadavers at the local post office.