I was telling people the other day that it had been 40 years since I first went to work for the Postal Service on July 10, 1974. I was leaving out the three years I was gone back in the 70's when I still thought I had a future, and doing the math wrong, but still. When I realized it was only 39 years, I was all, "Oh, 39 years, maybe I haven't wasted my entire life here, after all." Or yet, more likely.
If you just met me, you'd find it to hard to believe that I was a fat, uncoordinated child. "Someone as old and bald as that was never a child," you'd say. But I was, and it was a challenge for my mom to come up with something to say that would be flattering. "You have such nice hands," she settled on. I ran into some of my customers the other day at Costco. I was doing a riff on how long I'd worked at the post office and what a failure I was, blah, blah, blah. They said, "But you're personable," which I took to mean that even my hands aren't all that anymore.