My coworker has issues. We aren’t talking the “Oh-my-goodness-aren’t-you-funny-you-have-issues” issues. We’re talking some hardcore, psychologically scarring, “Holy crap should we even be friends” kind of issues. Case in point. She’s 19 years old and talks on a daily basis about how she wants to have babies and get married. Not necessarily in that order. The only person I’ve ever known to be more obsessive on this point would be my 2 year old little sister, the day she cried uncontrollably from her car seat that she “JUST NEEDED DAD TO FIND HER A HUUUUUUUSBAAAAND!!!!!” (Mind you, this is the same sister who is now collecting older boys’ phone numbers and email addresses…she’s 9. Heaven help us.) Two days ago, my coworker started up on a whole new level. “Man,” she whined. “I’m having awful back pains.” “ And I’m hungry ALL the time! What can I eat?!” “Gosh I don’t feel good. Getting sick to my stomach.” “I want food but I just don’t feel like I’ll hold it down.” Such exclamations of pain and panic continued throughout the work afternoon. I mean, we’re talking she was so bad, *I* started having sympathy pains and stomach aches FOR her! “Good heavens!” I finally exclaimed, “You sound like a pregnant woman! Would you stop it already?!” And then the forgetfulness set in. Names of siblings. Basic work functions. Where she’d left her keys. It was so bad, I half expected her face to start glowing with expectant motherly pride. Trying to get her mind of her phantom pregnancy, I took her window shopping for furniture (so I’m a couple months ahead of the curve, but never mind that). We scouted out the downtown furniture places after ordering Sonic cheeseburgers…that she could only eat half of due to impending nausea. Then, bummed at the thought that I had no money to spend, I decided we should walk around the mall…look at clothes we couldn’t afford…and finally, perusing the bookshelves of Barnes and Noble. Which, might I insert here, is a slice of heaven on earth. JUST saying…. We weren’t in the bookstore 10 minutes before she came crawling back to where Kristen and I were scouting out Christmas presents. Her face was ashen, she was doubled over like she’d been sucker punched in the stomach. “I bent down to look at the books on the bottom shelf,” she breathed painfully, “And the nausea hit like a ton of bricks. I’m going outside for fresh air.” And she hunkered her way outdoors. Kristen and I just looked at each other and groaned. Seriously. What were all these pregnancy symptoms about ANYway?! This morning, I picked her up for an early morning workout, hoping, praying, that she had gotten over her symptoms. No such luck. After 15 minutes of disorientation via text, I got this message, “Blast it. These socks make my ankles look fat.” Good grief. Now the phantom swollen ankles. What would be next?! Dare I even ask? | 
