At My Age?

When I’m alone in a coffee shop, I don’t take for granted that the people who work there don’t fear me. A middle-aged, out-of-shape blond woman with an ancient designer purse and sensible shoes doesn’t scream “threatening”, at least not physically. I recognize not everyone has this experience.

One time in a Chicago elevator, a man sucker-punched me and attempted to take my purse. I don’t want to get into exactly how I reacted, but he probably thought twice about ever trying that again. I should also mention that had he successfully made off with my purse, he would have been crushed to death beneath the weight of disappointment. But I digress.

Now that middle age has wrapped me in the cloak of invisibility, I am unthreatening. Unless my order is being taken or my hair catches on fire, I am generally left to my own devices. I can safely sit and observe the comings and goings of other coffee shop visitors. The overheard snippets of conversation aren’t guarded or whispered. Nobody is trying to impress me or impressed by me. I am inconsequential.

So I write. I write with the dream that someday, someone says, “Hey, that’s the lady who used to come into the coffee shop all the time” as they witness me receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature.