I've long been a fan of Nora Ephron, the prolific writer of screenplays and books who died Tuesday at age 71. But she endeared herself to me and, I'd guess, to a legion of baby boomer women with her last two books, which described with wit, honesty and wisdom the female transition from midlife to that not-to-be-named next stage.
The titles alone hooked me: "I Feel Bad About My Neck" and "I Remember Nothing."
Damned leukemia, I muttered when I heard that Ephron had died. I'd been counting on her to be my (much) older, wise, slightly daffy guide to what comes next.
Ephron was a masterful practitioner of detached self-analysis and self-deprecating humor. She parlayed that talent into best-selling books and hit movies. ("When Harry Met Sally" is nearly every female boomer's favorite flick.) Her work encouraged fans like me to cultivate the same skills, and to discover for ourselves that laughter, especially when it's shared, is a reliable source of strength.
I'll keep laughing at the accumulating years, Nora. But it would be easier if you were still here doing the same.