I can’t remember when I stopped looking at myself, when my face and body, once narrow and all sharp angles and dark shadows in tight pants and short skirts, filled and rounded with age; when I became unrecognizable to myself and invisible in the world. For years I’ve secretly loved the anonymity, the invisibility, the freedom to move around without the annoyance of comments, of worrying about what I look like and what it means. Most of the time, no one even notices that I’m there. I’m just a shapeless blur, floating down a sidewalk or into a store, with a child beside me or a dog in front of me. A few months ago I left my hair salon wearing a clear plastic shower cap over my head because I didn’t want the bad weather to ruin my blow-out. The girl at the front desk laughed as I stepped out into the rain, shocked that I would walk all the way home like that. But I couldn’t have cared less. Because I knew it didn’t matter, that not a single person would look at me. And not a single one did.

Today is no different. I scan the supermarket aisles in search of avocados, nuts, and bananas. I stop and close my eyes when I get to the frozen Indian food, trying to remember what I’m wearing today, like a party trick. Is it pants? A skirt and Uggs? A sweater or a zip-up fleece? Except for the dog hanging from me, I have no clue what I have on, what I look like. A strange thrill runs through me—I’ve escaped myself for another day—until I open my eyes and force myself to look down: baby-pink flared cropped cords, a black long-sleeve scoop-neck thermal, flip-flops, even though it’s far too cold for them. I don’t even remember getting dressed today.

In line, I wait for the cashier in the store’s signature Hawaiian shirt to chat up the young woman ahead of me. Every time he picks up one of her items to scan he comments on it—he loves the Brie; the garlic naan is awesome; who could get enough of these new chocolate-covered frozen bananas. The comments continue as he bags up her groceries, smiling and joking and coming out from behind his little station to personally hand her both bags. Maximum customer service. “Nice to see you. Have a great day.”

It’s my turn now. Once she’s gone he returns to his register, reaches into my basket, which I’ve helpfully started to empty myself to save him time, though he doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t say a word. He’s all business. Except for a quick glance at the clock and at the line behind me, he doesn’t look up. Even the dog doesn’t get his attention. We’re completely invisible.

I could let it go. But today, for some reason, it bothers me that he doesn’t see me. It bothers me that I’m here but not here. I flash my braces at him and ask what he thinks of the boxes of frozen saag paneer and butter chicken that I’ve so carefully selected because they will be soft enough for my adult braces, while also the only frozen food my husband and son will agree to eat, but he ignores me. I’m just a weird mom-lady holding up his line. When he reaches for the bananas, I grab his hand midway. “You had opinions about all her items,” I say, pointing toward the parking lot, even though the young woman is already long gone. “Why don’t you have anything to say about mine? Cat got your tongue?”