My youngest cat, Pepper, loves to be invisible. She thinks that if she’s underneath a piece of paper or inside a box, you cannot see her (even if a paw or ear or tail is still showing), and thus she’s invincible.
I admit total responsibility for this. Every time Pepper hides underneath a piece of paper or inside a box, I behave as though she’s done the ultimate vanishing act.
“Where’s Pepper??? She was just here a minute ago and now she’s gone. She must be invisible!”
Although I spend a lot of time online, I feel as though no one can see me when I’m at home. The house is my version of Pepper’s paper or box; it’s the one place where I am generally unseen by most of the world and yet able to accomplish almost anything I set my mind to.
On those rare occasions when I do leave home, I tend to stick to the fringes. I go to places where people rarely congregate. And, due to the summer surge of COVID-19 infections (along with my latest disastrous dental issue), I wear a mask whenever I’m in public and around others.
Weirdly, I feel more seen when I wear a mask now because no one else is doing so. Apparently, most people are cool with repeatedly catching COVID and are unwilling to take even the smallest of precautions to avoid it. Since I do wear a mask, I stand out. In the past few years, I’ve also noticed that having a coughing fit in public puts an unwanted spotlight on me, masked or not.
All of this is to say that I’ve not become agoraphobic since the pandemic began. I don’t feel an irrational fear about leaving the house (unless I’m seeing a medical professional who plans to use needles on me). Nor have I become less social. I still chat with friends, meet online with my book group and enjoy dates with M.
But, like Pepper, I’ve begun to enjoy being invisible. At home, I feel loved, comforted and unseen. Or as The Whimsical Muse recently noted:
