I saw an interview some years ago with a woman named Stephanie Dolgoff who was talking about her book, “My Formerly Hot Life,” in which she talks about what it’s like to realize that you are no longer the desirable siren you once were. For her the realization came when she was asked by a handsome fellow for the time on the subway and took it for a come-on. She responded with that thought in mind, giving him the time and watching him for his next move. Which was to say, “thanks,” and return to what he had been doing before. No follow up to start a conversation. No “line.” No flirtatious smile. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Of course, I immediately related. And my eye-opening experience was much more painful. When I was just about to turn 50, I was dating a fellow who I met on Match.com, and with whom I was falling head-over-heels for. A year my senior, he wasn’t all that good-looking, but he was very smart, something that had been missing from almost all my other relationships. He was also part of a non-mainstream denomination Christian church, and his beliefs were somewhat weird, but we had the most fascinating conversations. We dated for about five months, and I met his young son, made dinner for him many times, and he for me.

One Friday night, I was making dinner for him and he didn’t show. No text, no phone call, nothing. I texted to ask him where he was and he responded, saying he had an interview at a local university where he had applied. He sent a couple of pictures of the place throughout the course of the evening, relating to conversations we’d had. He was telling the truth. But he hadn’t even bothered to call, which of course didn’t sit well with me. I called a friend to come eat the dinner I’d made and tried to put it out of my mind. After she left, he called to tell me about his evening. When I asked him why he didn’t call to let me know ahead of time, his response was to tell me that while I was the best match he’d ever met in terms of intellect and spirituality, he just wasn’t attracted to me physically. 

By then I had had the milestone fiftieth birthday, and those words hit me hard. I was devastated. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will tear me apart and leave me bleeding on the floor, and then they will do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, ad infinitum. And they did for many days. And then for at least a year, I was hyper-critical of myself, seeing things in my looks that weren’t there before, or at least I hadn’t noticed them. And the truth is, I really was not the pretty young thing I once was. Not unattractive, and I still looked younger than my age, but it wasn’t enough.

Since then, I’ve had a few more milestone birthdays, and I have not dated. I’ve been asked out a handful of times, and I’ve gone to dinner with a handful of fellows, but nothing more than that, and never more than once. I’ve become fast friends with a couple of the men I went out with, and I couldn’t be happier about that, but I have decided that I am essentially invisible to men of all ages.

I wonder how much of that invisibility is of my own making. I think I give off a vibe that puts men off, and I’ve done that for years. I am hyper-independent, have various interests that I enjoy regularly, and I have had my heart broken enough times that it takes a lot for me to look twice at a handsome man.  I’ve become extremely content on my own. I have my friends, a small extended family, and I love animals, so I have my furry family, and I find the affection from these three groups to be very fulfilling.

That is the key, I think; finding things that fill us up. If we are full, we may be invisible to some people, but we are enormously visible to others. And to ourselves, which may be the most important of all.