The Invisible Gray-Haired Woman
Everyone at the Boston Sports Club is huffing and puffing, frantically trying to retard the aging process. Yet here I am flaunting my gray hair, sending the message that -- oh, the sacrilege! -- I'm okay with looking older. Suddenly, I feel giddily rebellious, like I'm taking Communion in a see-through dress.
I hit the treadmill and run a few miles, slowly, so as not to disturb my hairpiece. People are checking each other out right and left, but no one even looks at me. I guess it's true that women become invisible after a certain age. But, contrary to what I expected, being ignored doesn't bother me. For the first time in months, I'm actually paying attention to my workout instead of worrying that my fellow gym-goers are fixating on my back fat.
For no apparent reason, my treadmill suddenly shuts down. I ask the cute blond 30-something guy to my right for help restarting it. He just shrugs and keeps running. Would you treat your mother this way, young man? Or, for that matter, your prematurely-gray-yet-undeniably-hip friend?
In the weight room, trainers mill about, looking bored, so I'm surprised no one asks if I need help when I struggle with the 10-pound dumbbells. I'm usually accosted by gym staff trying to improve my form. When I finally ask a female trainer for tips, she tells me to pull in my butt, without a hint of condescension: the exact opposite of the way trainers treat me without the wig. Here's at least one positive; service types actually respect their elders.
I soar to the locker room, high on endorphins and feeling buff -- until a 60-ish woman with the body of Jennifer Aniston walks by. Arrgh. I'm going to have to move into the gym if I'm ever going to look that good.
When I work out in New York the following day, I get a lot more attention, most notably from a trainer who rushes over to help me lift weights, chirping, "Does your back hurt? You have the posture of a slouching 13-year-old!" I choose to take this as a compliment -- it's been a long time since anyone said I look like a teenager. Not everyone is so happy to see me.
A Pretty Young Thing gives me the evil eye as she waits for my elliptical trainer. What the hell is her problem? Oh, wait. That's the same look I've given older people who use the cardio machines during the morning rush hour. I've often ranted that anyone old enough to be retired should use the gym at 3 p.m., when those of us who have to work don't need it. The gagging sound you hear is me, choking on my own medicine.
