Invisible me

Look here. Ima try to find things funny about my “invisibility complex.”  It’s real. It’s a thang. There have been examples, circumstances and moments that I can share. And I can overshare.

So, the good news is that I do not have RBF. Certainly refreshing. However, I do have an affliction that they call ” DIC,” dumbass invisibility complex. And when I say “they,” I mean me and my cats and highly intelligent dog. It’s a very sad story. So very sad.

I’m not the “sought after” type.  I’m the “who the eff is Tara?” type, even asked by people who have known me for years.  My mom sometimes asks that. So. embarrassing.

 

Imagine. Middle school, seventh grade dance. I climb into my nicest loose knitted vest with matching fold over ribbed socks and hop, jump and skip my way over to the “Enchantment Under the Sea” dance. That wasn’t the name. But, this dance would house my secretive pubescent boy crush who would steal me away and shuffle dance to Wham! All. Night. Long. Instead, I am a shy, stressed out, highly self-conscious wallflower filled with longing and regret, and Aqua Net fumes.  My feathered hair was wet from my sad, salty tears. Or from the handfuls of trail mix I was consuming out of desperation to appear like I was busy, that I was “aight.”  I mean it’s not like I can pretend like I have an aggressive social agenda by playing “Soda Crush” on my smart phone. Dude, it’s 1984. Tubular. It was even more uber awkward since the freaking social butterfly that I drove to this social disaster with is living large across the room in the middle of her man huddle, working her Madonna laced gloved hands through her curly perm like she was “Living in a Material World, MATERIAL!”

Have you ever been part of a team or group, maybe in college, or at some point in your life at a place where you used to work?  And you’re so proud of yourself because your group was GOOD, and you pretty much carried them. If it weren’t for you and your fantastic ideas, forget it. You carried these jokers like you were in a 1993 mosh pit. Then, when presentations come around, and it’s time for the accolades, that shit is stolen right out from under your invisible knickers. I love England!  Basically, the sentiment from everyone, everywhere is always…“I’m sorry, you are?”

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I’m invisible. That’s who.

True story. A couple of months ago I was standing in the supermarket deli line WITH MY FREAKING AUTOMATED DISPENSED NUMBER, which is an official rule! OFFICIAL. My number was just about to be called, according to the NASDAQ inspired overhead Lite Brite scroll board. This 50-ish friendly man perv and I were the only 2 customers waiting. WAITING.  (I do not at all in any way know firsthand that he is a perv. I just know what kind of flowered shorts pervs wear, and that knowledge on my behalf, that “win,” I consider a flower in my cap.) The customer before me left, let’s say they were number 36. I was number 37. Order quick, and get to steppin.’  I’m not even joking. This happened. Happy perv dude walks up to counter, and sinister, non-rule following teenage dingus clerk gladly helps him. I’m standing there INVISIBLE. I had the number in my hand, doing the universal “WTF” sign, and they both look and smirk. “Oh, were you next?”  I can’t. Again. I can’t even relive this situation, because it was tragic. #firstworldproblems.

OMG! Here’s some crazy shit. So, one day I got to my son’s baseball game SUPER early. Me and my girls were the first ones there, so we chose bleacher sits on the bottom left. I promise, hand to baby Jesus, that 3 adults came walking up, and the mom (with her parents) assemble her seats that they brought from home right in front of my dead carcass.  I had to be non-living, because why else would it happen right in front of me.  I am not shitting you. Here’s a diagram to scale.

Not only is the stank one wearing a flop top, she is a proud, smug jagass.
Not only is the stank one wearing a flop top, she is a proud, smug jagass.

 

Ever go to a movie theater that’s empty and think to yourself: “Hot damn, I have the pick of seats!”  ?? I did. Once.  The first time I went to a theater, I had that thought. But, over the years, that thought has faded, and has since been replaced by “Let’s play the fun ‘which idiot is going to try and sit in my lap’ game.”  Because I could be wearing a neon pink inflatable glow suit, and some turd will walk in and put their drink in my drink holder, sit their kid in my lap, and rifle through my purse for some popcorn money.  Inevitable.  I’ll show them.  I’ll stand up for myself and I’ll say something sophisticated and thought provoking, and I’m going to do it for all the invisible losers!  I stand up, and I….grab my damn purse, and my drink and STOMP away as loud as I possibly can and plop down into a different seat. Oh, you think that’s passive aggressive? Well, you should have HEARD the crazy talk I was having with her in my head. I DOMINATED.

 

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Hey! Trying to get in a sweet club, but there’s a really long line?  Want a fast pass to the innards of Cool Kingdom? Then definitely don’t stand next to my sorry, loser unlucky ass.

I could be at an event and the only person who put tickets in a specific basket for raffle night. No lie. They’ll pull out the one, ONE! ticket and my name has disappeared, along with the magic, invisible ink that I must’ve written it with. My shit just disappears, fades away, POOF, like a thief in the cold, unforgiving, assholish night…

Am I ever going to stand out in anyone’s mind? Am I a mediocrity sandwich that’s too vanilla with a side of bleh and meh?  Nobody remembers me!

Imagine being at a conference and finally feeling confident FOR ONCE to raise my hand to ask a question…And…they don’t see me. I hella hate speaking in front of crowds, all eyes on me, but this time I was feelin’ it. They don’t see me! This shit is “hand in my pocket” ironic. Shunned.

I can’t tell you HOW many times this has happened: I’m at the Dr.’s office waiting room, and have to continuously come out to check and see if anyone even knows that I was put there.  “Oh, how long have you been here, honey?”  “Only 2 hours.”

 

And being shitfully shy doesn’t help this crusade. Nil. I tried diving off the shyness train by becoming a cocktail server, then I realize I am a stupid ass dumb idiotic moron because I can’t remember orders or focus on one thing. Ever. Thanks, ADD. You’re a super spastastic confidence boost. I was hoping for a severe executive functioning mishap to occur so that I could take my cockiness down a few notches. And I won the booty. My head is so big.

So, there we have it, folks. These reasons that I have illustrated above are why I am a goof goober with no lick of confidence, common sense, or comparable comebacks to curtail these cunning circumstances. Crap.

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