Pride

I'm proud of a lot of things. Looking good in plaid, having toes just the right length, picking out cool greeting cards, falling down gracefully.
But one thing I can't take pride in is my cooking. I don't cook, don't even try. I am afraid of my stove.
I don't even want to turn on the gas to heat water for tea. Making a Greek salad causes flop sweat. Reading recipes makes my head ache. Pictures of tasty meals fill me with jealousy and remorse.
When women ask me if I cook, they can see the fear in my eyes and walk away disdainfully. Now I understand why guys that cook get more sex. Frozen meals and microwaves are like having a non-working penis.
Maybe I should start slow with meatballs and work my way up to pepper steak and chili. When I finally got up the nerve to open my stove, it was so dark in there I stopped breathing.
Perhaps I'll start with a simple salad. I can handle lettuce. Cucumbers are another issue.
At least I'm making strides in my relationship with my dish washer.