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
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