I am the magician’s assistant or I used to be.  I think I am on my way out.  I strut in sequins and spangles and fringe.  I wear my own top hat and stiletto heels.  Heavy eye makeup.  The men in the audience sit a little straighter when I come on stage. 

That’s how it used to be.

The magician too has grayed at the temples.  There’s a touch of white in his neatly trimmed beard.  He is “distinguished”, “so handsome”, the ladies sit a little straighter when he bounces onto the stage – virile and larger than life, his black cape and cummerbund downplaying the beginning of his potbelly.

My sequins accent mine.

Hair color tries to cover my gray temples.

My opera gloves highlight the gift of menopause:  arm wattles.

Stage makeup may make him look older too, but that’s okay…the magician is allowed to get older.  But the assistant must be an ingenue, a miss, svelte and sexy and glamorous and befitting of the magician’s prowess with sleight of hand, the misdirection, the knife throwing.  The cellulite on my thighs and the second chin don’t disappear in the magic mirror.

How magic can it be?

He is allowed to be who he is.  To use subterfuge.  They all know it’s a trick, but they suspend disbelief.  The men envy, the women swoon.

I am sawn in half.  I carry bunnies.  I dodge knives.

But the most realistic of them all – I disappear.  I enter the chamber.  He waves his wand, and the old woman disappears.

Disappears.

Disappears.

We all do.

Until we’re not noticed any longer.  We can’t even get a backstage pass.  We certainly can’t stand in the spotlight.  It will show our age and that’s just not allowed.

A new ingénue in stiletto heels and sequins.  Opera gloves accenting her shapely arms.  When she stands in the disappearing chamber, you know she will be brought back.  She is a trick. 

I disappear.