Life Experience at 40

Well, technically, I'm 43, but....details. I've never really thought about my age much, but lately I've caught myself looking in the mirror, lifting my my eyebrows a bit, holding back the saggy skin on my neck, and nearly passing out trying to suck in that pooch that's gotta be due to bloat and surely not fat. I blame the U.S. Postal Service for all of this. No, I'm not a disgruntled employee who's dreading the holiday madness; I'm a mom who's facing a deluge of mail from universities all across the United States trying to lure my baby girl out of the nest. Now, let me assure you that I understand this is a necessary process (even though I never finished college) and a great one that will hopefully serve her very well, but it's also one big, fat tap on my shoulder that my job is done. Over. Done. CUT! How can that be?? I'm not only losing my daughter's vibrant, beautiful company, I'm losing the only job I've ever loved and I'm reminded that all of this means I'm transitioning to my older years.

So, how to deal, that is the million-dollar question. Botox? Been there, done that and my eyebrows ended up looking like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Time with friends? Sadly, I'm not a night person, or a morning person, and I loathe the phone. Social networking? Ah, now there's an idea that I thought would fill the void! I am now the best friend of a mafioso in the Bronx. A lovely man, but not much in common, and of course distance is an issue. I finally found a hobby that really had potential: Retail therapy. It actually lives up to its name; I didn't think of USC or U of M for weeks and my closet began to rival that of Paris and Kim. The high lasted until the credit card bill came. Now I know why they call it "Discover"; I discovered that retail therapy creates the need for a 12-step program with Shoppers Anonymous. The only condolence is that I'll look good in my Michael Kors "Becca" pumps

Michael Kors
and Tom Ford super-cute "Jennifer" sunglasses, which will hide my identity just in case I fall off the wagon at Nordstrom.

Tom Ford
The question still remains at the end of the day as I sit here in my Wildfox, uber-soft NYC sweatshirt and Lucy yoga pants and watch my daughter fill out her college applications. I pour another glass of wine and ignore the nagging voice in my head preaching about my addictive personality as I open up Craig's List to look for a new career. I quickly find that experience in life doesn't count and nobody lists good fashion sense as a qualification. I guess the answers lie in that pile of mail on my kitchen table afterall. My freshly-manicured fingers tap quickly across the address bar of the computer: "www.universityofcalifornia.edu".