Mad Cow

My friend, knowing I’m pregnant and planning the night’s dinner, graciously asked if I was eating blue cheese.

“Yes!” I answered with gusto.

“And how do you want your steak cooked, do you need it well done?” she asked.

I hesitated because I had to remember if my usual preference conflicted with my pregnancy preference and in that moment my friend jumped in with, “Well, you know, it only matters if, you know, if . . .” and in HER moment of hesitation I immediately thought she was implying “It only matters if you *really* are pregnant.” Or even worse “It only matters if it lasts.”  And I thought oh God, what if I’m not really pregnant?  What if it won’t last?  This friend is clearly the voice of reason and I’m just kidding myself here.  I could feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment and my heart pound with anxiety and just before the head of this terrible snake swallowed its own terrible tail, she finished her thought:

. . . it only matters if my husband can cook steak to order!”

Moo.

For the record, the meal was sublime, my steak cooked perfectly and the company divine which is heaven for someone who is constantly on the verge of an anxiety attack.

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