"Do you want the extra deep scrubbing, scraping, abrasive rubbing callous treatment, hon" said Mildred my mani pedi expert, examining them criticially after having me remove them from the almost scalding hot water that I was afraid to tell her was scalding for fear of antagonizing her. She does wield a razor, you know.

"Actually, no" I murmured, "they are supposed to look that way, it's an evolutionary thing."

Eyeing me suspiciously, she hunched her shoulders, said something unintelligble under her breath, and grabbed a toe furiously filing it into submission.

Obviously, Mildred was not a recepient of the monthly magazine Darwinian Today that I was slavishly devoted to.

Had she been up on the latest explanations for our current condition she would have known that wrinkled and calloused fingers and toes were a result of naturally selecting those who could remain stationery and upright on a wet rock while foraging for sale items and mark downs. 

The scientific community was still somewhat at odds as to why, evolutionarily speaking, this was only an intermittent condition and that fingers and feet were not permanently wrinkled.

Had they consulted me, I would have given them this obvious explanation.

Total body wrinkled skin, a permanent middle aged condition, was clearly enough of a turn off to discontinue the propagation of the species. Hence an evolutionary explanation as to why there was a permanent decline of desire to have a romp in the cave. Wrinkled feet and toes while momentarily sexually unattractive, when returned to their pre wading in the water natural state guaranteed the production of another generation. 

Okay, men, this one is for you. Remember this tune?  "I want to be happy, but I can't be happy, 'til I make you happy too."

Not happening.

Unless, that is, you have her undergo an extensive DNA mapping to determine if she has the gene marker for MAOA, also known as the  "happy gene."

I kid you not. 

Women, this is not a  moment quid pro moment. Men don't appear to have this version of the gene. Their version seems to make them aggressive. The warrior gene.

Go figure.

One would have thought that with enough of the population having this gene marker it would contribute to a more upbeat world view, but in actuality that's not the case. Anxiety and its evil twin sister anger can supercede the genes function.

So sad.

But, if you're not bummed by the flat chest or piano legs or curly hair, that you've inherited, you now know she's given you an extra dose of MAOA.

Having no skill set for loftier goals, like developing sustainable agricultural techniques or saving endangered species, I've set my sights somewhat lower.

I want to write the next incarnation of a Shades of Grey trilogy.

It's been called the erotic breakout novel of the digital download revolution. Downloadable, it's been said by those who are snarky, so if you are reading it in a public venue no one would know.

No matter, Ms. E.L. James is going to make a great deal of money. That would be a multi seven figure great deal of money…

And that is motivation enough for me.

Really, even if I could come up with a plan to save endangered species, it really doesn't pay much, does it?

Ms. James, in the myriad of interviews I've seen, has been delightfully self deprecating. I can do that. She's middle aged. I can relate. Fighting the battle of the bulge is probably something we share. She admits to not being very disciplined. I call my lack of discipline, affectionately, by it's pet name, …HDAD. And her book, I'm told, while being touted as erotica, doesn't really offer up any steamy sex. Another condition I can, sadly, relate to.

But she wrote it, and I have not, and probably can't, let alone won't.

I suppose I need to reconsider my apirations list. I must not look to be rich, famous and maligned as an author of, not quite but almost, smut. I will be a humanitarian.

Tomorrow I will save the rhubarb from extinction while I simultaneously save Willy.

Defined as…Self control. Determination. Drive. Grit. Single mindedness.

Can you relate?

Picture Helen, who wasn't going to indulge in even the teeniest, tiniest, itsy bitsyish, mini slice of the cake she had just baked. Controlled. Determined. Eating the left over batter, licking the icing from the knife (after tasting it three, okay seventeen times with her soup ladle (where did she put that tablespoon?) and, lastly, wasn't an eight inch round just simply too big? Compelled to carve it into a six inch round, and being no where near the garbage, Helen consumed the 2 inches of excess.  

But she did not eat a slice of cake.

Immediately Helen called her Weight Watcher, Over Eater Anonymous and Jenny Craig support groups to be commended and congratulated. 

Had she truly exerted self control? 

Actually. Yes.

At least according to the social psychologists Roy Baumeister and the science editor of the New York Times, John Tierney, she did. In their book "Willpower" Rediscovering the Greater Human Strength" they concluded that "willpower is limited and depends on a continuous supply of the simple sugar glucose." When glucose is depleted, you fall prey to impulse shopping, affairs and cookies."

Let me understand this.

If you want to maintain self control, eat a few cookies. Not enough cookies and you might throw yourself on the nearest available warm body, after buying those coveted Jimmy Choo's, and finishing off the entire packet of Oreos?

Does this make sense to you?

Apparently it doesn't make sense to Veronica Job a psychologist who avers that "willpower can be quite limited, but only if you believe it is."  In other words, willpower is in your head, not because of your body's biology.

Let's see.

Tell yourself often and loudly that you won't lose control and indulge in a spree of your choice. Or, eat some cookies, a banana or two, maybe a Mars Bar and your appetites are sated? 

Pass the guacomole, I'm going with door number 2.

"You look great, gorgeous, fantastic," he said.  "Oh, no, really, I don't" she said, casting her eyes downward, eyelashes a flutter. Gently rearranging the curl that had fallen into her line of vision, was she pantomiming the ultimate female flirt maneuver?

Actually not.

She was, in fact, quickly scanning the latest computer software she had downloaded. Not remembering the name of her newest app, "Liar Liar Pants on Fire" while seemingly very pedestrian, nonetheless popped into her head. 

Imagine it.

No shifty eyes giving one away.     

"I'll call. Had a great time. Let's do this again." 

"It's a very very safe investment."

"Don't you age?"

Sweetly murmured sentiments. Terms of endearment. Heartfelt.

And in the palm of your hand, with a flick of your finger you ask your fantastic iphone 4, "is this all true," and it coos softly back to you "not a word of it."

In 1968, the story goes, some enterprising creatives at the venerated advertising agency BBDO slipped 15 marbles, or thereabouts, under the vegetables in a bowl of vegetable soup. Not for flavor enhancement, you understand, but to keep the vegetables from sinking to the bottom of the bowl.  Clever?

Apparently not.

The FTC, the watchdog of communications, declared that advertising with false claims was a no no.

Really?

Didn't you think, as I did, that Lite foods would make you skinnier, dabbing a bit of fragrance here and there, you'd be irresistable, slathering toning cream all over your body would result in nary a wrinkle, dent or bump?

The FTC, apparently, only moniters out and out manipulations not wishful thinking.

Worried you've been had?? Duped? What you see isn't real??

There's hope on the horizon.

Sooner than later you can have your very own photoshop detector.

In the works is a software tool to measure how much a beauty or fashion photo has been altered. Can you imagine? The age spots actually didn't disappear, the waist line didn't shrink, the lashes didn't grow.

And, for the online dating world, total and complete havoc will ensue. 

I love it.

Take a good luck at this image. Which one is the healthy one?

Finished?

It's the little guy on the right. Would you have picked him?  

That's why I'm not a scientist, but a slave to the fashion magazines. I was certain that the sleek, okay gaunt one, was the epitome of healthy. Slightly hunch back, maybe because he's never gotten used to being tall.

Anyhow, want to know why the clearly chubbier one is the healthy one?

He's had his senescent cells zapped. Gone, out, finished, kaput. And what do these senescent cells do? They age us.

Three words that should never be in a sentence together.

Remove these cells and viola, age related diseases are eradicated.

In mice.

But scientists are working on this for us humans. If they can, during our middle years,  make these nasty cells go away, our knees might not creak, our eyes may remain clear, and our skin may remain supple.

Don't get too excited. It isn't happening in your lifetime. Or mine.

But if you know any aging mice, let them know there's hope.

Right, it's a hydrangea.

But, even Thomas Moore knew that hydrangea wouldn't work itself gracefully into a line of poetry.

And besides, finding one rose alive and well while all its mates are preparing themselves to become sachet, wasn't easy.

Anyhow, don't know about you, but for me this image provokes a myriad of feelings.

Ready for my philosophical moment?

Nah.

But, I do imagine for some this does cause a moment or two of reflection…beginnings, endings, time to fertilize…

Gladys, feeling somewhat desperate, looked furtively around the communal dressing room.

Was there, she wondered, anyone that she could really really trust to ask, "how do I really really look in this outfit?"

My god, she realized, not a soul.

That one, over there in the corner, why she was squeezing her size 14 body into a size 4; and that woman three stalls over, didn't she know that brown was no longer the new black, and the new black is neon green, at least for the moment, until all stop wearing it as toe nail polish?

What to do?

Holding up her iphone, smiling gamely, Gladys snapped a picture of herself. Quickly posting it to her Go Try It On phone app she breathlessly waited for feedback. Within minutes she received responses as to how she looked, what accessories to add, and a smattering of diet recommendations. 

Wondering who these arbiters of fashion might be was incidental to Gladys. The consensus was buy buy buy. Could these respondents possibly be employees of the store? Were they laying in wait, watching for the posing and snapping to take place? Would they then be running off into the bowels of the store to register their opinions? 

Never.

So I am going to download this App immediately.

After all, why wouldn't I trust a cadre of strangers who possibly believe Britney Spears is a fashion icon, to comment on my selection?

I'm seriously thinking that I need to buy this outfit.

It's from the Comme des Garçon 2011 Spring collection. And, if those who are in the know tell us that this is the latest in 'must haves', who am I to argue?

After all, we all know people who are absolutely cutting edge. The trendiest, hippest, aware of the latest, ahead of the curve, fashionistas. 

I'm not one of those.

I try. Really I do.

30 years after Jennifer Beale wowed the world in her Flashdance sweatshirt off the shoulder ensemble, I'm still sporting the look. 
And, apparently, the hair.

So here's my thinking.

I'm going to tuck this ensemble in my dresser drawer for the next decade or two.

Then when I put it on, I'll know that it'll be my opportunity to out fashionista the fashionistas'. Be the first on my block. Have them writhe with jealously. "How'd  she know" they would ask, "so out there" they'd say.

Look at me, I'd think. "I'm the trend setter at the nursing home."