Cloak of invisibility

I got confirmation yesterday that I am invisible.  Again.  It's the middle-aged-woman syndrome.  We are the Unseen, blended into the cityscape. 

I was waiting to be waited on at a tiny and crowded alteration shop.  The place always makes me think this is what a sweatshop must look like.  Behind the counter you can view the female staff working, about a half dozen, each seated at a sewing machine.  Long racks stuffed with clothing divide the backroom.

The space for customers is divided into the tiny counter area and fitting room area.  I walked in and did the customary survey: who is ahead of me and who is being fitted, where is the line, is there a line?  No one is at the counter.

I deduce that I am to stand at the counter and wait for help.  I've been to this mom and pop place multiple times and know they are kind and also busy.  I make faces at a little baby, who makes faces back.  Dogs and kids like me.  I don't know why. 

A few minutes into my waiting, this tall 30-something male comes in and walks right past me, throwing his suit jacket onto the top of the counter.  Out of nowhere, the shop owner appears at the other side of the counter and they conduct their business!! 

What the F**%!!

I am invisible.  There's no other explanation.  Well, rudeness.  There's that.

While I am used to this cloak of invisibility that comes with age, it still got my blood boiling. I was mad at Mr. Jerk who didn't even ASK if I was waiting.  That's a law, right?  Any person standing between door and counter must be considered AHEAD of any other person coming into establishment AFTER said person who was there FIRST.  If it's not the law, then common sense.

I was mad at Mr. Business Owner.  Where were you when I was standing there politely exchanging funny faces with the baby?  Clothes in hand, I obviously was waiting to be served. 

Last, I was disappointed in me.  I have been working hard all these years to wash off the nice.  Not all of it, but a lot of it.  Got it from growing up in South Dakota.  We're too polite.  We don't like to confront others.  No spotlight for me, thanks. 

Of course, after Mr. Jerk leaves, I belly up to the counter, tossing my clothing at Mr. Store Owner.  Do I let him have it?  You decide:

Mr. Store Owner: You can pick up Wednesday after 4.

Me:  I need them Tuesday.  He writes Tuesday on my ticket.  Ha!  And, I got the last word.

Me: Thank you very much. 

That'll teach him.