It used to be forty, then fifty, now maybe even fifty-five, before women start to notice that no one is noticing. Add an additional ten years for men. Most of us make peace with advancing invisibility as we age. We can take pride in what we've become, what we've learned, what we are still able to achieve. Then, surprisingly, even a small stab can deflate a well-earned sense of self.

    Here's my story.

    I am visiting a new doctor, a well-reputed specialist. The waiting room is crowded, many of the patients past middle age, some very elderly with another in attendance. The office staff exudes efficiency and a friendly ease.

    Before long I am ushered into an examination room, one in a row of six or seven.

    Eye drops are administered and some basic questions asked by an assistant, my answers noted for later review by the busy physician. A smile, a magazine and a not too long wait is promised, and I am left alone.

     Soon I become aware the doctor is in the examining room next to mine. He is talking to someone about the process of reapplication for a driver's license which has lapsed, the tests to be anticipated, how to avoid likely obstacles. I conjecture that the patient is hard of hearing as the doctor's voice is raised. His tone is gentle, unhurried and indulgent. The listener's responses are barely audible.

     I am warmed by this doctor's caring way, the sensitivity with which he addresses the elderly patient who I assume is vulnerable and confused. I will praise this kind doctor, soon, when we meet.

     He knocks and enters, smiling, and with his hand outstretched in greeting says: Hello, young lady, how are you doing?

    I feel diminished, categorized, even disrespected. I am not young. Please, doctor, do not call me "young lady". This strips me of dignity. Young women are 25 and under. You can use my full name, or no name at all.

    But these words, although screamed, are unspoken. I simply say: Hello.

    My rehearsed words of praise for him are swallowed.

    I have lived many years and value the richness of my experience. Joy, and sadness, both in good measure, and good health, allow me to look to the future with optimism, accepting the deficits of aging. But I want my status recognized, not made a foolishness.

    Did he view his greeting as a kindness, or was it simply thoughtless ineptitude? And does it matter in the larger scheme of things?

    Yes, it does