Could somebody hand me a bib?

Sometimes I wonder why I'm even allowed out in the world without a keeper.

I went to Starbucks with a girlfriend today. Three sips into my caramel machiatto, I let loose with a big drip of coffee on my shirt. CLASSY.

(I suppose my first mistake was going out in public with someone several years younger, many pounds lighter, and way cuter. I was already at a disadvantage.)

I don't seem to be able to eat or drink anything without spilling. It's like a sacrifice to the Dry Cleaning Gods.

A woman at church told me I should be pleased that my spills end up on my chest as opposed to my lap, thereby signifying a large bustline. I guess I don't consider a bustline of any size attractive when signs of food and drink are dribbled upon it. But maybe that's just me.

My Grandma had this problem. Of course she was an elderly woman who passed away at the age of 85. Remains of your last meal staining your blouse are forgiven at that age - heck, they're even expected! Somehow it doesn't translate well to someone in their 40's.

(Okay, late 40's. Really really late 40's. ALRIGHT I ADMIT IT - the last final months of being in my 40's... Let's move on, shall we?)

Of all my Grandma's traits, why did I have to inherit this one? Couldn't it have been her Danish cheekbones or fair complexion? Her regal height or cheerful mood?

Nope. I inherited the 'spill' gene. I can't leave home without a pocketful of Tide Sticks.

That's just the way I roll.

I'm big, I'm bad, I'm messy - get used to it.