I’ve never really clocked regularly what aging feels like day to day. That’s not to say I’m unaware of it happening especially when some kind of video call happens and I catch sight of myself and think holy hell, look at all those jowly things that have appeared on the southern portion of my face, etc. (I would refer you to Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts About Being a Woman for a very entertaining take on this topic) but overall I’m not overly concerned regarding the number of years I’ve been on the planet.

Lately though, I’ve been reminded of my age because of where I am in my work-world search, or more specifically where I’m not. I could go all in here about ageism, youth, AI, cracker jacks, and prizes (so, those last two have nothing to do with anything, I just wanted to fill out the list), but I’m not going to go in that direction. Instead, I’m going toward how it feels to be seen by other people. I make up what I think they see, what opinions they make about me.

The gaze and self-perception. As a younger me—specifically twenties and thirties—my career choice was one of visitor, fly on the wall, get the story but don’t be the story. Still&all, I often felt a part of the story, whether because I was with a band or artist who were being looked at by thousands (or millions) or because I was being interviewed myself about those bands I wrote about who were being looked at by thousands (or millions). It was a special kind of thrill to feel eyes on me and not really nervous-making given I understood I was an accessory to the main event. But also, when I’m honest, the thrill came from being seen in proximity to these well-known people. It felt sexy and as if through all those stranger’s eyes, I was admired, thought to be lucky. As a teenager, I’d voraciously look at photos of my favorite bands and study the women standing side-stage and want to be them. Naturally I’d make up all sorts of stories to do with muses. That I didn’t see myself on the stage being the creator is a writing for another day (honestly is a story I’ve been writing/exploring for years and years and years and years).

A couple of the most intense times I remember this feeling was when I was at SPIN and an intern came into my office to drop off my mail and said wistfully, “You’re so lucky” as she unloaded a pile of lumpy padded envelopes with advance CDs, swag, and invitations to clubs and shows onto my desk. I’d been there for three years and strived my way from working in a literal closet to having a corner office with a very NY-city water tower view. I agreed with her. I was lucky. From a glance at lease, given that the state of things at SPIN was a mess of harassment and toxic relationships. But in the moment she said that, I saw myself through her eyes and thought, yeah, I am cool. The other time that springs to mind when I felt a group gaze affect me was post-SPIN, when I worked as the musical talent booker at the short-lived TV program the Jane Pratt Show (side notes: Here is a classic example of the show—I booked the DJ, also this Tupac guest spot, Jane Pratt currently has a great newsletter, and hello my friend KarenC). The guest that day was Evan Dando from the Lemonheads. I knew him from my music days, and as I was walking him down the hallway toward the green room, I felt a concentrated I-wanna-be-her energy rolling my way from the audience in the hallway as they waited to get into the studio. At the time Evan had a heart-throbby kind of following and I remember trying hard to just act whatever my version of cool was at the time. (To hear what he was actually telling me and other tales of Jane Pratt madness, click below.)

This is all to say that adjusting to the disappearance of that heady gaze once I’d left the entertainment industry was surprisingly challenging. I hadn’t realized how much it had gotten into my system and colored who I thought I was and how I carried myself. The first time I went to the MTV Awards, which back in the day, late 90s, was a hot-sh%t event, after I’d run screaming from the music scene, I felt the reality of just how transactional my persona had been. I literally had nothing to offer to most the people there. That’s not to say that I didn’t still have real friendships among industry folx and musicians but overall, the sense of invisibility was absolute.

Surprisingly, that feeling of invisible is back as I drop my name in the hats of so many job postings. I’m experienced enough (old enough) to know that this online search is a fool’s-style game of musical chairs yet I really have to remind myself to check my ego when the fourth-in-a-day email comes across telling me “such-and-such and so-and-so won’t be moving forward with my application.” When I feel myself responding with pure emotion, then I take it personally and will flip off my computer or huff around like a 7-year-old who doesn’t get a cookie before dinner. The rubber-band sting can pass quickly if I let it but sometimes I decide to press on the tiny bruise because I’ve decided to feel bad about it. This isn’t really about age because I know for a fact that it’s a mess out there in particular corners of the job-search world and especially for women of a certain age who, let’s face it, have always been particularly screwed. Two audiobooks I’ve loved in the past few weeks: I’ll Drink to That: A Life in Style With a Twist, by Betty Halbreich and How to Be Old: Lessons in Living Boldly from the Accidental Icon by Lyn Slater, both of which are funny and clear-eyed about aging women on this planet.

I’ve got no ending here, just a trail to follow and we’ll see where it goes.