I have learned a new trick. I can go invisible. I know this, because I walked into a clothing store at lunchtime the other day and despite the fact that I was the only person in there, none of the retail assistants could see me. And it wasn’t to do with the physical environment – not everyone in the shop was invisible. I know this because when a very cool 18 year old guy walked in after me one of the young female assistants said “Hey Dude, wot’cha needin’?”, and I’m fairly certain she wasn’t speaking to me.
Interestingly, I am only invisible in clothing stores, and then not all clothing stores. Anything with a name that ends in an ‘I’ or a ‘Y’ is dangerous, and if it contains the word ‘jeans,” I’m dead in the water. (I’m particularly sad about this, since my generation invented the wearing of jeans as a fashion garment in the sixties and I have pursued that ideal with absolute integrity ever since.)
Shops bearing the name of a designer are generally safe. For example, I am not invisible in Gucci or Prada, although if they could see my bank balance I probably would be. Neither am I invisible in most of Smith & Caughey, although as I migrate from the Paula Ryan department over to Calvin Klein, I can sense myself beginning to fade.
Sadly, even in those stores where I am not invisible, my physical presence is distorted. I know this, because the retail assistants always say “oh no, you’re not a 14, you must be a 12”, despite the fact that I have been a 14 virtually since I was born, and it can safely be assumed that, at this age, I am entirely familiar with the dimensions of my own body.
They are also inclined to tell me that no, those jeans are not too short, that it’s cool to be exposing three inches of unwaxed, winter-white ankle, and that yes, that slate colour is gorgeous with your skin tone, despite the fact that the 99 per cent of the population who are not colour blind would agree that I look like a week-old corpse in anything from the grey palette.
And then there are the shops where I wish I were invisible. Where the 17 year old, size 6 retail assistant bellows ‘Hello Honey” at me from the end of the store when it is far too early in the day for civil conversation, and then tracks me around the racks thrusting tiny tinsel tops at me saying ‘these are so awesome don’t cha think?”. Actually, I don’t think. So if you are no older than 17, no heavier than 40 kilos and with the fashion sense of a parakeet, best not to approach me. Just pretend I’m invisible, why don’t cha.
CAROLYN - 14 years ago
I can relate to this article BIG time. I remember my mother saying to me that you seem to get to a certain age and for some reason you become invisible. At the tender young age off 55, I now know what she means!!!