I’ve often thought my inability to make interesting small talk is directly related to the circumstances of my birth.

If only the attending physician had left the umbilical cord right where he found it, I would have had riveting conversational fodder for decades.

My wardrobe would have consisted of nothing but low-slung skirts and midriff blouses and crop tops.

I would have visited Dr. Paul Niehans in Vevey, Switzerland on a twice-yearly basis for specially formulated umbilical rejuvenation injections because nobody likes a shrunken appendage.

And what’s good enough for Pope Paul XII and Willie Maugham is good enough for me.

People within a six-foot radius of my presence would have been catapulted into catatonic catalepsy.

I could have gone down in history as the Waisted Medusa.