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"Pitiful. Stinking pitiful," Mabel muttered. The perfect peach had gotten puckered while she'd been waiting for the exact right moment of ripeness. That's how it was with perfect things. Their moment in the sun was brief. That's why Mabel made it a point to be very, very imperfect. She wore her shoes on the wrong feet, never brushed her teeth, and pierced her eyelids instead of her ears. It was all a bid to live a very long life. So far, at 99, it seemed to be working. But Mabel's very imperfect parents had lived to be 104 (they shared the same birthday), and so she had to be more imperfect than them. She knew what was standing in her way. She didn't mean to, but she had perfect posture. Try as she might to slouch, to crouch, to kneel and keel, her shoulders wouldn't obey. She paid a small fortune to a contortionist to do to her body what he did to his, and once the broken bones healed up, she sat straighter than ever. She was afraid she wouldn't make it to 100, even, because of it, and then would her parents laugh from their graves. They loved to laugh at others' misfortunes, another of their imperfections.