Since moving to my parents’ house in rural Wales I’ve stopped being seen. Not entirely- my parents see me, people in the local town see me, I see me. But there’s a sense of invisibility when I compare my life here to my life back in London. Walking around the city I was seen constantly- every place I had cause to go was populated, public, full of people walking or driving or cycling or doing a fit check or having an argument with a parking attendant. Whenever I looked up from my book (phone) on a busy tube or bus, someone would be looking. Not staring or meeting my gaze (this is England) but looking around. A near constant catching in someone else’s eye-line. Now: not so much!
I tweeted last night about how every single January I feel the ugliest I’ve ever been- ghostly pale, sleep-deprived, fried around the edges- but that, on balance, I think it’s good for my character. “I feel butters and yet still, this beautiful year is mine.”
I really wasn’t fishing. I just wanted to say it and see who felt the same (e.g. my entire internet career). A few people did. A few didn’t.
Perhaps I feel it more this year because it’s the first time I’ve entered a new year as a single person over thirty. Last year I was in a relationship and the year before that I was 29, footloose and totally fancy free (bone tired of dating & plotting for a future living alone in a lighthouse). It’s a strange feeling! Mine is a situation that many people hope not to end up in. Thirty-something, unmarried, single, childless and living at home. I’m glad for a lot of how I’m living, of course, but it’s fascinating to think how many people would dread this. At 31 I am in the unique position of being incredibly old while also being young. I am the ancient baby the prophecy foretold. I am in my cautionary tale era, as close to the witch in the swamp as I’ve ever been.
I like feeling invisible more than I thought I would, though I do long for particular moments of visibility. A held look across a busy bar or lamplit front room at the house party of a friend of a friend. Another woman admiring my shoes or bag. I like the ritual of it, the sophomoric excitement of getting ready in the same room, the pleasure at having chosen the right outfit.
I feel pulled taut between enjoying not dealing with harassment, but also wanting to feel sexy, powerful, alluring- indeed, all of the 90s aerosol body spray adjectives. Most of my nice clothes are vacuum sealed in my parents’ garage and will likely remain so for the foreseeable. I dress for comfort and warmth. I turn down nine out of ten invitations to events because they are happening hundreds of miles from where I live. My relationship to beauty is changing- whether temporarily or more permanently is yet to be seen but for precisely right now: I care less than I ever have about my looks. I dress like both halves of Oasis, leave the house, complete my mission and get back in the house.