For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.
English novelist (1882 - 1941)
I think about this alot. How white women over the age of 40? 45? just disappear. We cease to exist. We become one of those nondescript people you see - background people. We could rob a bank and no one would be able to identify us because woman over a certain age are all the same. Invisible.
There is something oddly comforting about anonymity. Sometimes. But do I always want to be invisible? Hmmmm, I'm not so sure it matters to me anymore.
Somethings that are really really nice about being my age: the thought that I may look stupid on a run with an old sweatshirt, old sweatpants, mismatched socks, stocking cap, and mittens - doesn't bother me in the least. I have progressed from simply being weird to now being eccentric. So I am told. Sometimes people believe me when I tell them something. As if I have some experience. I am much calmer than I used to be - mainly because I've lived through some pretty horrific stuff and it has passed and things are better again.
I'm glad I am where I am in life. I complain a lot. But I think that's because I am unhappy with some things, some choices I've made and I'm not sure how to change without hurting a whole lot of people or myself.
So it is okay that I've become a member of a nameless, faceless group. And here is a picture of me: