I am notorious for getting a cold sore when I am stressed out. I woke up on my wedding day with one. By the time we landed in Nice to begin our honeymoon, it hurt so bad we marched straight to a pharmacy and I asked in French to please, mon Dieu, put me out of my misery.
I can usually figure out what has prompted a cold sore. With the wedding, I would say it was our MIA candy that tipped the scales.
This morning when I woke up with a cold sore, I looked at it and said, “F*cking Steve.”
Steve is the name of my mother’s “friend,” whom I am going to meet for the first time this week. I learned of Steve on Friday at 4:30PM. Via email. As I was dialing into a kickoff call with a new client.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, none of this is actually Steve’s fault. Steve is just being Steve; it’s your mother who could have alleviated some of your stress by:
A) Telling you about Steve in person or over the phone more than four days before the meeting;
B) Not introducing the entire damn family to Steve on a holiday; and
C) Providing a few details about Steve so you didn’t spend all weekend trying to figure out how Steve entered the picture, where he lives, what he does for a job, if he has any kids, how your grandmother’s failing heart will handle the introduction, and how you’ll obtain his social security number over dessert so as to conduct a thorough background search.
Yes. You are probably right. It’s just so much easier to pick on Steve. Mostly because his Facebook profile photo appears to be his third grade school picture.