Tonight: I’m watching the last few minutes of Pregnant in Heels. Fritz, who seems to buy his clothing from the set of Sergeant Pepper and likes to expound on the virtues of “Elimination Communication” (Rosie has the patience of a saint), is cheering on his wife, Christina, as she gulps down a placenta milkshake. Christina puts down the glass and reveals a placenta milk mustache on her upper lip. This image, which is both terrifying and strangely awe-inspiring, is immediately imprinted on my brain. I will carry it with me for the rest of my life. And this epic moment, like any other, has changed me forever. Don’t get me wrong. I’d give a lot to erase the last hour from my memory. But the fact remains -- there was the Daron of old, who would have called the placenta milkshake an urban legend, and the Daron of now, a man who must find the strength to accept that placenta milkshakes do, in fact, exist.