We'd had very little sleep the night before, and a few hours on the road in front of us, so after lunch I ducked into a coffee shop for the necessary caffeine while Shawn strapped the kids into their car seats. It was the type of coffee shop with a twee name and mixed-medium art by a local artist hanging on the pristine white walls. The woman who made my drinks was (I guessed) in her early twenties and (I knew) impossibly beautiful.
I ordered our drinks and rolled my eyes at the $11 total ($11! For coffee! Get off my lawn!) and stood at the counter to wait. The guy behind me placed his order and stood chatting up the coffee goddess while she steamed milk and pulled shots. He was young and scruffy in that way that is supposed to look nonchalant but is actually very intentional.
I stood waiting, invisible, as the young scruffy one told the young beautiful one about house parties and his band and something about a mutual friend and a hammock. She giggled at the appropriate places and coolly accepted an eager invitation to the next house party and managed to royally fuck up our drinks.
We pulled away from the coffee shop and tried to agree on who would drink which drink. (They both tasted like melted ice cream.) I'll happily forfeit the killer eyeliner and the drunken ragers and the taut skin for my station wagon and babies but I'll be DAMNED if they try to take my coffee.
It's an interesting thing to be invisible. It's not a bad thing, just a thing. I'm not a young one or a beautiful one or even an intentionally-scruffy one. I'm just me. And I love me. I love my wide hips that have birthed two babies. I love my stretch-marked breasts that make milk like it's their damn job (because it is their damn job!) to feed those babies. I love the scars that tell the story of beating cancer and the dark circles under my eyes that tell the story of my sleep-hating baby.
My life is full and beautiful and enough. I don't mind being invisible.