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I cleaned my garage this weekend.  Lots of emotions come up for me when I first stepped into my 2-car garage built in 1938.  Of course, I immediately feel anger and frustration.   Dirt, dirt, dirt – lots of it on the floor – thanks to the city of Denver’s disinclination to get this damn alley paved!  (We think it might happen in 2014.)

Then, I see the jack-o-lanterns peering out at me.  They always make me happy.  Halloween is such pure fun.

Oh, over there is my daughter’s two-story, white colonial doll house.  We had such fun fixing it up when she was a little girl.  I experience great delight and anticipation because this Christmas her daughter will be six, and I plan to give her the dollhouse, cleaned and slightly refurbished.  I’ll include a note and a gift card so that we can go shopping after Christmas for her to get furnishings for “her” dollhouse.

Then, I see it in the corner. A small cardboard box and, once again, I feel sad.  Just like the day last summer when I filled that box up and tossed a lot of stuff out from other boxes.  You see, inside that box, are my most treasured portfolio items from my years as a public relations and marketing professional:  annual reports, videos, newsletters, brochures, speeches, etc.  On top of the box is my gray “portfolio case.”  I remember buying it in the 1980s and taking it on interviews to proudly show my work.

Now that I no longer work, none of these items really have any value to me or any prospective employer.  To boot, I believe that no employer would hire a 66-year-old woman with over 40 years of experience.  If anything, I would automatically be told about their volunteer opportunities: I could become a cog in their machinery, instead of a manager that could help drive the business.

I don’t think my 40-year-old-something children would want any of this stuff. By the time my grandchildren might have an understanding of what these items mean, I will already have thanked profusely St. Peter for all the parking spaces I found in my lifetime.

All that work.  All that creative juice.  All those awards I and my teams received are now sitting in a box is a dusty garage.  The recycling bin is right there; but, I might want to look at the pieces in my old age and remember. My God, I really am turning into an old lady.