Still Invisible

I was 26 years old by the time I finally saved enough money to buy my first car. These were the pre-internet days, so my research consisted of asking my dad what model he recommended. With two Hondas already in the garage, he went out on a limb and suggested I try a Honda too. So, one evening my younger brother Tony (with whom I was then sharing one of the family cars) picked me up from work, and we drove to the local dealership.

Fresh out of law school and clerking for a justice on the New Jersey Supreme Court, I approached the process with confidence. It was 1990, after all. I was smart. I was a professional. I could handle myself.

Sure I could.

The car salesman spent the entire visit talking to my brother. The entire visit. I don’t think he spoke to me once, even when I interrupted his lengthy discussion with Tony of the Accord’s latest features to point out that I was the one buying the car, not my recent-college-graduate-looking-for-a-job younger brother. It was as if I was invisible. Until, of course, the salesman got to the available colors, at which point he asked my brother what color car I’d like. Presumably, I should have been happy he even acknowledged I was standing there.

I did eventually buy a Honda Accord, although needless to say, it wasn’t from that guy. After a call from my boss, a salesman he knew at a different dealership helped me get the car of my dreams. Apparently, all it took for me to be taken seriously by a car salesman in New Jersey at that time was the intervention of a JUSTICE ON THE NEW JERSEY SUPREME COURT, a less-than-gratifying discovery.

I’d like to say things have changed. After all, thirty-five years have passed. I’m older and wiser. I’ve spent years working in particularly male-dominated offices in what used to be a male-dominated profession. I’ve spent a lifetime handling things.

If only I could say things had changed.

Two weeks ago, I had to meet with a service provider for some instruction on the app used for a new item we recently bought for our house. My son happened to be home, and he was going to be using the app sometimes too, so I asked him to join me. You can guess what happened next. Through some magical sexist process, I once again became invisible, and the service provider directed most of the conversation to my 24-year-old.

Who will be moving out in a couple of weeks.

Who obviously wasn’t the owner of the house or the person who pays the bills.

Now, I have to admit, this guy wasn’t as bad as the original car salesman or many of the other men I’ve interacted with over the years. He did answer my direct questions. But when a problem became apparent and the service provider didn’t like my reaction to his inadequate explanations, he turned to my son and said, “you understand what I mean, don’t you?” As if only another man could get what he was saying. As if I was too stupid to grasp the concept. As if he wasn’t the one who was wrong.

Like most women of a certain age, I’ve endured years of “mansplaining” and don’t usually bother to expend the energy to react to it anymore. Yet, this incident has stuck with me. Maybe it’s because at 62, I thought I’d broken the code on not being ignored by overbearing men. Maybe it’s because I’ve hit my lifetime limit on being treated as dumb by some guy who knows less than me. Or maybe—just maybe—it’s because it’s 2025, and I’m tired of being invisible.