As I get older, a disturbing development that continues, without my written permission, I've simplified my needs. Scaled back on my big dreams. Dialed down my lofty goals. Lowered my expectations. At this stage, it's all about acceptance, baby. The long legs, the lustrous hair, the math brain. Not happening. Those trains left me behind at the station. Fine. Let others be tall and swing their shiny locks in slo-mo and explain String Theory. Does the world need another cute, lanky physicist with a thick, fabulous mane? No. Not really. We've got enough of those types already. I'm down to the basic essentials. It doesn't take much to make me smile these days. A good book. A good cup of joe. A good dog by my side. And yet, I'll admit, there is one thing I'd like to achieve. Yeah, I know it's wackadoodle. It's out of my comfort zone. It's beyond my grasp. Still. Just once, I'd like to remove a t-shirt from the cluttered nightmare of my closet. I'd like to put on said t-shirt, or nice blouse, depending on the occasion. Gardening. Marketing. Accepting the Nobel Prize in a non-science, non-math category. Kvetching. That works. The Nobel Prize for Kvetching goes to the SJG of Sherman Oaks. I like the sound of that. But, really, more than anything, I'd like to go downstairs and out into the sunlight and greet the day without a spot on my clothing. It has never happened. There's always a spot. I look down and there it is, the remnants of olive oil or red wine or ice cream and it's never coming out in the wash. These spots must be addressed, immediately, or forget it. The evidence that I'm incapable of eating a meal without dribbling on myself is there for the universe to see. But a gal can dream a simple dream. Or start wearing a bib. Like everything in life, it's up to me, isn't it?