Unlike some of my friends, I never thought much about whether or not as an older woman, I had become invisible--whatever that means. That is until one spring day about ten years ago when I was walking along a Manhattan Street with my young friend Nina. Nina is stunning. Black hair, blue eyes, perfect pale skin and a killer body. I noticed that men’s glances lingered as we passed by. I quickly figured out that I wasn’t the attraction.

I can live with that. I do not depend on the glances of men to feel good about myself. Besides, I have Peter who thinks I am still beautiful. That’s what counts. Please, no comments about the fact that he doesn’t see as well as he used to.

But something very nice happened last week. A young colleague whom I don’t know very well took me aside before a meeting. She asked if I had been walking near the reservoir with my husband the previous Saturday, and I replied that I had. This is what she told me:

“On Saturday, my partner and I were driving home from obedience class with our five-month old puppy when we slowed down for some traffic near the reservoir.

We simultaneously let out an extended 'aaaaawwwww.' Walking along, with their backs to us—was a distinguished-looking couple, each with lovely gray-white hair. The woman had reached over and put her arm around the man with such a tender and sweet gesture. He leaned into the small embrace.

While we felt that we had invaded a private moment, we were both touched by the event. We remarked that we hoped that we still touched each other like that when we were their age. At that point, we drove past them, and I said to my partner, 'I know that woman!'”

Invisible? I don’t think so.