Sue Pimento

Every family has an elephant it keeps meaning to talk about, and in my family, that conversation always seemed to circle back to dessert. Someone would work up the nerve to raise something serious, and right on cue, someone else would ask if anyone wanted more pie. The elephant would quietly slip out of the room again. Dessert was sacred in our house, which is probably why my dad ate his first. We could talk about the weather, the traffic, Aunt Carol’s hip, almost anything except who would be in charge if Mom’s memory got worse or where Dad would live if the stairs ever became a problem. Here’s the thing about elephants. Silence only makes the room darker, and everyone ends up bumping into more furniture while trying to avoid the thing nobody wants to name. Instead, turn on the lights and look at it together, out loud, as a family, preferably before an emergency forces the conversation to happen at full volume in a hospital hallway. Part one of this series was about the everyday chaos of parenting your parents, the cordless phones, the clumpy milk and the mystery meals from the freezer. This part is different. These are the conversations nobody brings up willingly, the ones that involve lawyers instead of laughs. But they come from exactly the same place and matter just as much, maybe more, because they’re the ones that keep a family from falling apart the moment something goes wrong. The Power of Attorney Huddle Start with a power of attorney, the single most practical and least romantic gift you can give your family. Most people assume it is one document that covers everything. In Ontario, it is two separate things. A Continuing Power of Attorney for Property covers money, bills, and anything linked to a bank account. A Power of Attorney for Personal Care covers health decisions, housing, and day-to-day well-being. Other provinces use slightly different names for the same idea, so check your own, but the concept holds everywhere in Canada. One person can hold both roles, or you can split them between two people, whichever fits your family better. Nobody wants to picture a parent developing dementia or Alzheimer’s, but that is precisely why these documents exist. The time to set them up is now, while everyone involved is still sharp enough to have an opinion. Once capacity is gone, the chance to choose is lost. Families who skip this step often end up applying to court for guardianship instead, which costs more, takes longer, and does nothing about the emergency sitting in the hospital bed. Do not let AI draft these documents. This is the kind of paperwork that needs to hold up at two in the morning in an emergency room, so it needs a legal professional who knows your province and your family’s particular version of complicated. Have the conversation as a family first. Ask Mom and Dad honestly who they want making these calls, then take that to a professional who can build something that will hold up when it is needed. Splitting the Shift, and Supporting Whoever Carries It If you are an only child, feel free to skip this part, mostly because you never had a choice in the matter to begin with. Every ounce of this responsibility lands on your shoulders alone, and if there is a special corner of heaven reserved for those who carry it entirely by themselves, I hope it comes with better snacks than the rest of us get. For everyone with siblings, the question of dividing the work is really a workload question, and workload questions go sideways fast when nothing is written down. I know it sounds painfully formal, like drafting a treaty instead of helping your mother, to put who calls the doctor, who handles the finances, and who takes the overnight shifts into an actual document. But clarity is the entire point, because when something goes wrong, and it always eventually does, families get frenetic, pointing fingers or freezing instead of deciding anything. There is an old line about the best time to negotiate a prenup being on the honeymoon, when everyone still likes each other and no crisis is pulling at the conversation. The same logic applies here. Do this work while everyone is calm and well-rested, not standing in a hospital hallway, because the alternative is doing it during the worst week of the year, with all the extra tension thrown in for free. Even with the fairest split, the person carrying the heaviest share still needs support of their own. Caregivers have a real talent for arranging support for everyone except themselves, scheduling pills, appointments, and grocery runs for someone else while quietly running their own tank down to empty. I did plenty of that myself. The exhaustion was never a badge of honour, just a warning light I mostly ignored. Support in Canada varies by province, but it is available. The Ontario Caregiver Organization offers free counselling, peer support, a helpline for when you need someone to talk you down, and help finding respite care. Caregivers Alberta provides resources, mental health support, and education for Albertans caring for family members or friends. The Canadian Centre for Caregiving Excellence tracks support nationally and points you to programs wherever you live. Eligible individuals may qualify for Employment Insurance (EI) Caregiving Benefits. There is also a federal tax credit worth asking an accountant about, since most people qualify and never claim it. None of this replaces an actual break, and a break is not optional, no matter how capable you feel. Respite care exists so you can sleep, see a friend, or sit in a coffee shop without your phone buzzing about a missed pill. Asking for it isn't a weakness; it's what keeps you able to show up for your parent at all. Feet First or in a Box Somewhere in every family, a parent eventually announces their exit strategy. I’m not moving. You can’t make me. The only way I’m leaving this house is feet first or in a box. It’s delivered with total confidence, usually while standing on a knee or hip that clearly objects to the plan. Here is the distinction that matters most in this conversation. The children don’t get to decide where Mom or Dad lives. They get to help their parents decide, and that difference changes everything about how the conversation should go. Instead of announcing a verdict, ask open questions. How do you picture your retirement? Where do you see yourself in five years? What would need to change for you to still feel safe here? Then sit with the answers instead of rushing to fix them. For those of you with a difficult relationships with a parent, a complicated family tree or a family with illness or any form of abuse, my heart is with you. Thank you for even reading this far. I know this is an even more delicate topic and I don't have solutions for you. I do know that the same questions and conversations would apply but perhaps would be better delivered by a neutral 3rd party individual, trusted friend of the family or local pastor. Patience matters here more than almost anywhere else in this series, because older Canadians have earned the right to be stubborn about their front door, and pushing too hard usually only produces more stubbornness in return. What matters is that you talk about what happens if the stairs become a problem, the garden becomes too much, or living alone starts to feel isolating. Sometimes the answer is small: a gardener, a chairlift or safety bars in the bathroom. Sometimes it is a little sneaky with a housekeeper once a week, who conveniently expands to caregiving assistance on additional days. Sometimes it is bigger, such as moving in with a family member or trading the family home for a one-level apartment that does not require a hip replacement just to reach the mailbox. Whatever shape it takes, it works best when the whole family writes that next chapter together rather than one person handing it to the rest. Wishes and Wills The last set of conversations covers what your parents want if they get sick, what they want when they die, and what kind of care setting they would choose if they ever needed one, as well as which community they want to be part of and what matters most when choices become hard. These are not questions you settle in one sitting over coffee. They build slowly, over several conversations, and some of it needs time to sink in before anyone can respond honestly. If a conversation stalls, let it stall. Somewhere in all of this, the subject of a will comes up, and it is worth asking plainly whether one exists, where to find it, whether it is up to date, and whether it is legal. Sometimes parents want to walk you through every detail. Sometimes they would rather keep the specifics to themselves, and that is entirely their right. It is their money, their wishes, their life, and being an adult about it means respecting the boundary even when you are curious. What matters is that the conversation happened at all, not that you know every line of it. There is also a very modern wrinkle to all of this: passwords. A will can name exactly who gets the rocking chair, but it says nothing about who can unlock the phone to find the photos in the first place, or access the email, or access online banking once nobody remembers the password to the password manager. Write down the important logins somewhere real, not just in someone's memory, and tell a person you trust where to find them. I have friends in their fifties and sixties who found a genuinely clever way through all of this. They told their adult kids about their wishes and what was in their wills via a family group text, agreeing to save the real questions for when they were together at the cottage for the family vacation. Nobody had to maintain composure across a formal dinner table. They just laid it out in writing, then filled in the details around campfires and silly card games. Then, at the next big family gathering, actual Post-it notes started appearing on furniture around the house. Someone had written their name on artwork. Someone else claimed the good armchair. What could have been a heavy, tense conversation turned into a full-blown Post-it war, with siblings calling dibs on Grandma’s lamp with the same energy usually reserved for calling shotgun on the front seat. Turns out you can talk about who gets what without anyone needing a box of tissues in the room. Same Family, Different Kind of Love None of this is easy, and none of it should be. If it were simple, someone would have written the manual I was looking for in part one. But easy was never the goal. The goal is to show up for the people who showed up for you, with enough light in the room that nobody has to keep pretending the elephant is not there. Part one was about the everyday chaos, the stuff that makes you laugh even as it drives you slightly insane. This part is about the quieter, harder stuff: the paperwork and the conversations that do not come with a punchline. But it all comes from the same place. Every bit of it, the freezer-burned shrimp and the power of attorney alike, is really just love wearing a very inconvenient disguise. So have the conversations, write things down, and get a real lawyer to make it official. Ask the open questions, then listen to the answers. And when it is done, or as done as these things ever get, go ahead and have dessert first. Life is too short and far too unpredictable to save the best part for last. Warmly, Sue My Book is Available for Pre-Order I hope you will consider pre-ordering a copy of Your Retirement Reset for you, a friend or loved one. It's available September 29, 2026 published by ECW Press You can now order at Indigo or Amazon. And if you love supporting Canadian booksellers, please also check with your local independent bookstore. Most can easily order it for you.

My mother used to take her cordless phone with her when she went out for lunch. One day I finally asked why. “Well, I might need to make a phone call,” she explained. I said it was a cordless phone, not a cell phone, and that it only worked in her house. She looked at me with a completely blank expression. I tried again. She listened politely, though I’m still not entirely convinced she believed me. Her smile never reached her eyes. Then there were the calls for technical support. Mom would phone because she couldn’t get the television to work, and I would patiently walk her through using the remote. Press the button at the top. Nothing. The red button. I don’t have a red button. Twenty minutes later, it finally occurred to me to ask what she was holding. Her cell phone. We laughed about these things, and they were funny. They still are. But something else was happening that neither of us wanted to acknowledge. Slowly, I was becoming the person who worried about my mother, checked on things, and occasionally told her what she should or shouldn’t do. In other words, I was parenting my parent, though I’m quite sure she would have objected to that job description. This stage of life brings plenty of drama and absolutely no instructions. No pre-retirement class, no baby shower, and, disappointingly, no one arrives with useful equipment. You just wake up one day and realize you are telling the woman who once taught you to cross the street that she might not be safe driving at night. The Driving Dilemma Few conversations test family diplomacy quite like asking a parent whether they should still be driving, and I sometimes wish my MBA program offered a course on it. They will tell you they are excellent drivers. The garbage cans, curbs, garage door and passenger-side mirror may tell a slightly different story. Driving means independence: spontaneous trips to the grocery store, visits with friends, appointments, and the simple freedom to go somewhere without asking anyone. I learned that there is a difference between what makes me nervous or impatient and what is actually unsafe. Getting lost in a familiar neighbourhood, repeatedly hitting things, missing signals, or becoming confused behind the wheel are very different. Canadian Automobile Association (CAA) offers a useful senior driving resource and assessment toolkit that can help older drivers and their families assess driving ability, changing skills, and ways to adapt. I like the idea of introducing objective information into the discussion. It may go over better than announcing that the children have held a meeting and voted Mom or Dad off the highway. Technology: Funny Until It Wasn’t Technology gave my mother and I some of our funniest moments. The cordless phone going to lunch and the cell phone masquerading as the television remote were classics. Often, my first instinct was to grab the device causing the problem and fix it myself. That solved the problem quickly, but it didn’t help her the next time. Writing down a few steps, simplifying them, and repeating them, sometimes many times, worked better. A checklist taped beside the television could save both of us a lot of grief. Confusion about phones, email, texting and social media could leave her vulnerable to fraud, too. Today’s scams are sophisticated enough that none of us should be too smug about spotting them. I tried to establish a simple habit with Mom: if something looks strange, urgent, frightening or too good to be true, stop and check with someone before clicking, paying or sharing information. I wanted Mom to enjoy technology and stay connected, not be afraid of it. The trick was adding a few guardrails without wrapping the entire Internet in yellow caution tape. The Great Grocery Store Standoff I am a bit of a health nut, which made counselling my mother about nutrition particularly ironic, since I come by it honestly. Mom was the original health-food nut. We called her the wheat-germ fanatic. Wheat germ came onto the scene in the 70s, and as far as Mom was concerned, there was no food that couldn’t be improved with a generous helping. There were four of us kids, and we tolerated a lot in the name of good health, but we finally drew the line when the spaghetti sauce became so chewy from wheat germ that we couldn’t eat it. Then there was powdered milk. We didn’t always have a blender, so it didn’t mix particularly well. We called it clumpy milk. Fast-forward a few decades, and there I was, the daughter of the wheat germ fanatic, lecturing my mother on fruits, vegetables, protein and regular meals. She had her own standards too. Anyone caught buttering bread in her kitchen got a quick lesson in technique, right to the crust, she would say, watching closely until you got every corner. Mom understood healthy eating just fine. What had changed was her ability to manage it, and keeping food safe had become harder. Her freezer became so full that she eventually secured the door with bungee cords. Bungee cords have many legitimate uses, but appliance repair isn’t one of them. The door sometimes didn’t close properly, and food would spoil. Mom periodically complained about what she called her “morning flu,” and I began to wonder whether it had less to do with a virus and more to do with whatever archaeological specimen she had defrosted for dinner. The comedy had a serious side too. Health Canada’s food-safety guidance for adults 60 and over explains that older adults may be more vulnerable to serious complications from foodborne illness and offers practical advice on storage, leftovers and safer food choices (Health Canada, 2025). It also notes that you can’t always tell whether food is safe by its look, smell or taste. Mom’s standard was somewhat simpler: “It looks fine.” She also loved giving food away. I would leave her house carrying freezer-burned shrimp, a grey object that may once have been beef, and mystery packages from an unknown decade. Eventually, I told my brothers to stop arguing and accept everything Mom offered. Smile, say thank you, and take it home. What happened between her front door and our dinner plates was our business. I didn’t have to win every argument. Sometimes a workaround did more than another lecture and helped Mom keep some control over her own life. Then There Was Dad My dad presented a different set of challenges. He had a stroke at 66 that left him with no mobility on his left side and very limited speech. His understanding was fine, but getting words out was difficult. However, there were two words he could say particularly well: “beer” and “Susie.” I’m not sure what it says about me that I made the shortlist, but I’ve always taken it as a compliment. Communication could be frustrating for both of us because Dad knew exactly what he wanted to say, even when he couldn’t express it. He liked wearing the same clothes repeatedly, sometimes long after the stains on the front suggested it was time to change. Telling your father that he needs a clean shirt or a bath requires a particular kind of diplomacy that even graduate school does not teach. Helping the man who once looked after you with something as personal as bathing is strange and tender in equal measure. You want to protect his dignity, but you also can’t pretend hygiene doesn’t matter. I found it worked better when I didn’t turn it into a debate. I could make it part of the day, help where he needed it, and move on. It wasn’t always graceful. Sometimes he was annoyed. Sometimes I was. We figured it out, and his toenails were trimmed. Dad also developed a dessert philosophy I have never been able to disprove. He insisted on eating dessert first. When I suggested he might want to eat his dinner before dessert, his reasoning was simple: “Well, I can’t be sure I’ll make it to dessert, so I’m going to eat it first.” Fair enough, Dad. Have the pie. When the Funny Stuff Stops Being Funny This is the uncomfortable part of parenting your parents. One forgotten lunch may mean nothing. Regularly forgetting to eat is different. One confused encounter with a television remote is hilarious. Increasing confusion across several areas of daily life deserves attention. I found it more useful to look for patterns than to panic over every incident. With Mom, we tried using checklists on the fridge and Meals on Wheels. Then I would arrive to find six or seven meals sitting uneaten in the refrigerator, starting to spoil. Getting help didn’t mean I could stop paying attention. We had solved one problem, but not necessarily the whole problem. It helps to know you are not the only family trying to figure this out. It is easy to assume that if Mom or Dad won’t listen to our brilliant advice, we must be doing something wrong. Our parents are still adults. They don’t suddenly become compliant just because they reach a certain age. I had to learn when to push, when to seek help, when to quietly remove the questionable shrimp, and, perhaps hardest of all, when to keep my mouth shut. I Would Take It All Back Both of my parents are gone now, and time has reshaped how I remember those years. There were days when I was exasperated and frustrated, sometimes to tears. I worried. We argued. I wondered why they wouldn’t listen and whether I was helping or simply making everyone miserable. Watching the people you love lose pieces of their independence is hard, and trying to help without taking over can be even harder. Now I would give almost anything to have some of those moments back. I’d happily explain the television remote again. I’d take another package of freezer-burned shrimp without complaint. I’d negotiate another bath with Dad, let him wear the questionable shirt for one more day, and watch him eat his dessert first. If you are in the middle of parenting your own parents, I don’t have a perfect formula for you. Pay attention when something feels different, protect their safety without forgetting their dignity, and pick the battles that really matter enough to let the rest go. And laugh with them whenever you can, because some of this really is funny, even when it is also difficult and sad. At the time, I often thought I was dealing with problems that needed fixing. Looking back, I can see something else, too. Those frustrating, ridiculous, worrying little moments were also time spent with my mom and dad. I didn’t know how much I would miss them until there were no more remotes to explain, desserts to debate, or mystery packages to remove from the freezer. I’d take the whole messy job back in a heartbeat. Even the clumpy milk. Warmly,  Sue This is Part 1. I have a Part 2 that covers what nobody wants to talk about at dinner: who gets power of attorney, how you divide the work with siblings without a family blow-up, whether Mom or Dad should stay in their own home, and what all of this does to the person doing the parenting. I promise there is less shrimp in that one. My Book is Available for Pre-Order I hope you will consider pre-ordering a copy of Your Retirement Reset for you, a friend or loved one. It's available September 29, 2026 published by ECW Press You can now order at Indigo or Amazon. And if you love supporting Canadian booksellers, please also check with your local independent bookstore. Most can easily order it for you.

Every football game has a moment when the players jog off, the field goes dark, and everyone wants to see what the halftime show will bring. My version came without a marching band or a surprise appearance by Beyoncé. Apparently, at seventy years old and doing my MBA (Yes, this is part IV of a series, links to Part I, II and III), halftime entertainment means staring at your grades, reviewing the game film, and asking yourself one honest question: what have you actually learned? Twelve courses down. Twelve to go. I am at that exact point, catching my breath, and somewhere in the distance I can hear the crowd murmuring, "Is she going to slow down now?" Spoiler alert: no. But let me show you the film first. The first half taught me a few things I did not expect. Technology and I reached an uneasy truce. Brightspace, Carleton University’s online Learning Management system, no longer feels like a hostage negotiation. I can upload a file, format a citation, and navigate a discussion board without a quick prayer beforehand. I would not call us friends, but we can now be left alone in the same room. Group work stopped being terrifying, too, once I understood something I probably should have known after decades in business: most people, students very much included, want to do their best work with the least effort required to get there. It used to sound like an insult. Now it strikes me as the most honest description of how most of us move through life, and in a program with this much content to cover, it is less a character flaw and more a survival strategy everyone quietly agrees to. If I had to pick one night that captures the whole term, it would be the one at ten o'clock, alone in my office, wrestling with an IEEE-formatted statistics report. The references would not cooperate. The formatting seemed to have developed free will, moving when I did not ask it to and refusing to move when I did. My dog Dottie had already gone to bed, which, from her, is roughly the equivalent of a slammed door. What made that night worse was that I was still stinging from a C+ in Financial Accounting. I wish I could tell you I shrugged it off with the wisdom of a mature student. I did not. When the grade first posted, I sat with the portal open for a good ten minutes, refreshing it as though the university might suddenly announce, "Our mistake, Sue. Clearly an A." No such luck. The grade stung more than I expected, and I carried some of that venom into the next course. Somewhere between the misbehaving references and the formatting that refused to cooperate, I realized I was not actually angry at the report. I was doubting myself. That C+ had cracked open a little door I suspect we all carry somewhere inside us, the one self-doubt likes to slip through when nobody is watching. Funny how quickly one lousy grade and a badly behaved reference list can turn into a full existential crisis at 10pm on a Tuesday. Even C's get degrees I kept going anyway and eventually fixed the report. Not gracefully. Not quickly. But I fixed it, closed the laptop, and sat in the dark for a minute, oddly proud of myself over a reference list. That was when the mantra found me again. Even C's get degrees. A friend handed me that one over a year ago, and it has never let me down, mostly because it keeps reminding me that the goal was never a perfect transcript. The goal was to stay in the game. Here is the adjustment I did not see coming. Business school quietly rewired how I make decisions. Full stop. Every decision, including coursework. The MBA program has an annoying habit of asking for evidence. Apparently, "it felt like a good idea at the time" is not an accepted decision-making framework. Who knew? Decades in sales and business taught me to read people, situations, and opportunities quickly, and I still trust that instinct. I just make it work harder now. I review the evidence, clarify what I am trying to accomplish, and ask whether the decision moves me closer to it. I used to pick a vacation package the way most people do. I looked at the brochure, felt something, booked it, and occasionally arrived to discover the "ocean view" required a telescope and a great deal of optimism. I still let myself feel the brochure, but now I also run the numbers, location, reviews, and value relative to cost. Whether it fits what I am trying to accomplish on this trip, rather than the fantasy I had while sitting on my couch. It has also taught me the difference between fear and desire, which sounds very self-helpy for a business degree. Stay with me. Demons run faster than dreams. Fear is fast. Give it half a chance, and it will make the decision before desire has even found its shoes. It tells you not to take the course, introduce your self to a stranger, or book the trip. Not to have the hard conversation. Not to risk looking foolish. As we get older, fear gets clever. It learns to dress itself up as common sense: be careful, be realistic, maybe it's time to slow down, don’t risk. I am learning to ask which one is driving before I commit to anything. A trip. A course load. A conversation I have been avoiding. Somewhere in all of this, I picked up a rule I am borrowing for the rest of my life: know when to stub your toe and when to put on safety boots. Some decisions can survive a little recklessness, the kind where you bump into the coffee table, yelp, and carry on with your evening. Others need the boots laced up before you take a single step. I am also in no hurry to rush toward a tub that enters from the side, thank you very much. That purchase can wait a decade or two. Caution has its place; it just does not get to run my whole calendar yet. The competition for my attention did not step aside just because I enrolled in school. Family wants time. Travel wants planning. Fitness classes want me to learn near choreography. My retirement advocacy wants everything I have left after that, plus a little more it did not ask permission for. Juggling it all has required negotiation skills I learned from a ten-pound dog. Dottie never begs or nags. She picks the one thing she wants, plants herself by the door, and waits, calm and immovable, until it happens. Everything else in the house can carry on without her weighing in. I am trying to negotiate my own priorities the same way. Decide what matters this week. Plant myself there. Let the rest of the noise wait its turn at the door. There is a voice in me that insists I should be doing it all, all the time, at full volume. This new way of deciding has meant learning the difference between what I want and what simply keeps me busy and conveniently away from the things that matter more. If I am being truthful, some of that motion is me pushing back against getting older, trying to prove something, mostly to myself. I have not figured out the balance yet, but at least I am aware enough to keep asking the question. Retirement, as a word, comes loaded with baggage. For most people, retirement still means earned rest, a slower pace, the right to finally exhale. For me, it has meant speeding up. Saying yes to things I never had time for. Treating this next chapter like an accelerator somebody left floored. People ask me, gently and sometimes not so gently, whether I am planning to slow down. I think some of them are really asking whether it is acceptable for them to slow down, and they are hoping I will give them permission. Of course you can. But I suspect others are quietly wondering the opposite, whether they are still allowed to speed up. Again, absolutely. So here it is, freely given, however you need it. Slow down. Speed up. Do some of both and change your mind next Tuesday. Take up Pickleball, or refuse to pick up a paddle just because apparently everyone over sixty has been issued one. Retire your way, not the way the world has always been sold to you. The only permission that truly matters is the one you give yourself. I have more years behind me than ahead of me now, which strikes me as a particularly good reason not to let fear decide what I do with the ones I have left. Most of us compare ourselves to people in similar circumstances. It is useful until it convinces you there is only one correct way to do this. I have never been particularly good at conforming, and it has always clashed with most of my outfits. There is an elective I keep hoping to find in this MBA, the one that teaches that ambition and quiet contentment can share a syllabus. Have not found it yet. Would sign up in a heartbeat. So here is where I stand at the halfway mark. My average has settled at an A(that’s a minus, not an em dash. Take that Pangram!) This grade still surprises me every time I refresh the grade portal, the same one that put me through those ten rough minutes in Financial Accounting. But the transcript is not really the story. I am not just learning finance, statistics, and marketing. I am getting better at deciding what truly deserves my time, my energy, and, increasingly, the years still ahead of me. Already using the playbook for vacations, for priorities, and for what earns a spot on my calendar and what gets quietly cut. If you are somewhere in your own halftime, take the ten minutes the C+ asked of me. Let the sting have its moment. Mine reminded me that self-doubt can show up at any age. Fortunately, so can the determination to tell it to get lost. Then get back to writing your second half. The halftime show is supposed to be the big spectacle everyone remembers, with fireworks, a surprise guest, the works. I used to think I was waiting for my own JLo and Shakira moment, a grand, glittering proof that all this effort adds up to something spectacular. I do not think that is coming, and I have made my peace with it. That spectacle belongs to somebody else's show. Mine is different. In the second half, I am just calling my own plays, one deliberate decision at a time, with a ten-pound dog refereeing from the sidelines and no patience for a false start. Not to be outdone by JLo, my MBA halftime show featured its own wardrobe malfunction. My costume never slipped on live television. Instead, I changed out of a sixty-nine-year-old outfit called Perfection and into something that fits: my own judgment, a mantra with some mileage on it, and whatever grade shows up next. All out in the open for anyone to see. Cameras can roll. So, second half. Still curious. Occasionally humbled. Considerably less afraid of a C+ than I was a few weeks ago. There is still time on the clock, and I intend to use every last minute. Don't Retire… ReWire! Sue My Book is Available for Pre-Order I hope you will consider pre-ordering a copy of Your Retirement Reset for you, a friend or loved one. It's available September 29, 2026 published by ECW Press You can now order at Indigo or Amazon. And if you love supporting Canadian booksellers, please also check with your local independent bookstore. Most can easily order it for you.