The phone rang. It was Jody, my twenty-year-old daughter, wanting to come home for the weekend. She’s finishing college a year early, having torn through her coursework in three years, fueled by passion and curiosity. In the rush to the finish line, however, she’s beginning to get a handle on the fact that the pre-ordained track she’s been on since Rainbow Preschool is about to come to a screeching halt in a few months and facing forward, there are big decisions to be made. So of course, when she said she needed her mommy and her daddy, we sprung for the airline ticket.

Processing all of the political messages about social insecurity, Dan and I are feeling very fortunate that we’d already figured out that we’re probably going to have to work the rest of our lives, anyway. Frankly, the “before” picture of the amount of money we’d have to live on—the promised figures that now we’re having to fight to keep—weren’t going to cut it anyway: not if we’d like to keep drinking our cappuccinos. (Not a luxury. Maybe it’s true that there’s something addictive in there…) A few months ago, we were whining about the amount we’d get from the government. Now we’re lusting after it.

Closing in on my 57th birthday Sunday. The difference between 56 and 57 is not much. In fact, about the only emotional attachment I have to the number “57” has to do with the ketchup. Interesting, because a year ago, dealing with the second of my parents’ deaths in two years, I felt so old, so “done.” With mortality so in my face, I somehow skipped ahead three decades and thought that given that it was my turn next, it was time to start closing up shop. As the shadows have passed, however, I’m having something of a rebirth. This website, the book, and my ethics practice all feel like they’re the beginnings of things, not the endings. And I love it every time the media talks about the possibility of Hillary running for President in a few years. Reminds me of a Native American tour guide, a charming man somewhere in midlife, Dan and I met on a reservation some years back. He was giving us a tour of Canyon de Chelle, stopping periodically to pick various herbs. “What are you doing?” we inquired. “Picking medicinal remedies for my teacher to use with his clients.” “Oh, you’re his assistant?” “No,” he responded. “I’m in training to be our tribe’s medicine man when I’m ready.” “When you’re ready?” “In our tradition, you’re not ready until you’re in your sixties, so you see, I’ve got a lot more to learn.”
Carol Orsborn

Another day, another Boo-mie award. This one goes to actress Alanna Ubach, with Jay Roach, director of The Fockers, as a close also-ran. Jay’s nomination has nothing to do with casting Barbra Streisand as a middle-aged sex therapist. Barbra does us proud, defying the aging stereotypes and having fun, to boot. But he is accountable for casting a 29-year-old as the middle-aged former housekeeper of the Fockers. There are many levels to the motivation for giving this award, so bear with me.

So okay, I ooh’d and ahh’d at the glam gowns and oh so trendy tuxes at the Oscars. What size are those girls? Zeros? Subzeros? (No, that’s a refrigerator…) But the numbers that really got my red carpet cheers were 62, 74 and 89. 62 would be the age of “Aviator’s” Martin Scorsese. 74 is the age of Oscar winner Clint Eastwood. 89 is the age of “Million Dollar Baby” production designer Henry Bumstead.