I’ve noticed something lately, and it’s not my graying hair or the fact that my knees sound like bubble wrap every time I stand up. No, this one’s bigger. Apparently, I’ve become invisible. Not the cool comic-book kind of invisible where I can sneak into a bank vault, but the real-life version—where I walk past people on the trail, smile, nod, even throw out a friendly “hello,” and… nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition. Just me, standing there like a misplaced garden gnome.

Now, I know what you’re thinking—maybe it’s just the kids. The “phone zombies” are glued to their screens, as if waiting for breaking news from TikTok headquarters. But it’s not just them. I’ve seen working professionals, a latte in one hand and a phone in the other, walk or ride their bikes right past another living, breathing human being without so much as making eye contact. If an alien ship landed right there on the trail, I swear half of them wouldn’t notice unless it had a push notification.

Back in the day, saying hello to a stranger was just what you did. Walk past someone out in nature—nod, smile, maybe even a “howdy” if you were feeling extra social. Today? You try that, and half the time they look at you like you’re selling timeshares. The other half, they don’t look at you at all.

The sad part is, I actually enjoy those tiny, meaningless interactions. A smile, a nod—these little exchanges are like WD-40 for the social gears of life. Without them, everything feels rusty and disconnected.

What’s wild is that it’s contagious. After being ignored enough times, I catch myself doing it too. Eyes down, phone out, pretending to be busy with an important text that probably just says “OK.”

I hate it!

But here’s the kicker—sometimes when I do go out of my way to say hello, I get the biggest, most surprised grin back, like I just handed someone a winning lottery ticket. It’s proof that we all still crave connection, even if we’re too distracted (or too guarded) to start it ourselves.

So maybe I’m not really invisible. Maybe we’ve just built ourselves little bubbles of distraction. But bubbles can pop. And maybe, it starts with us, the “older invisibles,” insisting on being visible. Saying hello anyway. Acknowledging the other humans around us, even if they’re busy curating their next Instagram reel.

I’m not asking for much—just a little eye contact, maybe a nod. A simple “hello” to remind me I’m not walking through a society full of holograms. Until then, I’ll keep being that guy—the one waving, smiling, and talking to people in line at the grocery store. If nothing else, it makes me laugh when they finally look up, startled, as if a ghost just spoke.

It turns out that invisibility has its perks.