Oh! A while ago, I was at a little indie movie theater housed in the basement of a wanna-be swanky, but really pretty douchey, restaurant/nightlcub. The bathrooms in the movie theater are tiny, so when movie was over, I went upstairs to make a quick pitstop in the nightclub before going on with my evening. I was washing my hands, and the woman next to me was frantically trying to get the automatic dryer thingy to work -- she was waving her hands in front of it all kinds of spastically, expending an awful lot of energy but never once actually putting her hands in sensor range.
She was in her mid-40s, trying desperately to appear in her late-20s; tanning booth skin awkwardly offsetting box-blonde hair and a bright coral dress. Her shoes and matching jangly bracelets were $39.99 from Shoedazzle; I could tell by the pink soles.
She looked at me, clearly upset by more than just the hand dryer, and said, "when we get over 35, we become invisible."
For a split second, I thought about placing my hand on the dryer's sensor, looking her in the eye, and hoping she'd hear me say "I'm 41" over the machine's roar.
But instead, I just grabbed a paper towel and went on my way.