Behind those who can wave their faces like banners and announce their names with the gusto of a game show host, there are hundreds—no, thousands—of women forced into the daily, death-defying act of tightrope-walking: The greatest show on earth.
It’s not the pumpkin spice or the fake cobwebs that haunt me, but the sight of fall jackets emerging from their closet hibernation, like bears roused by distant screams.
