I've been afraid of lobster for a long time.

And by "afraid" I don't mean a mild aversion.

I mean an extreme and fundamental fright in which even the lobsters themselves (if I ever walked too closely to a tank or if a dinner cohort had one splayed lifelike on his/her plate) would talk to me.

They'd mutter things under their lobster breath, like tiny prisoners of fate whispering to me from the next cell over:

"You even think of taking a bite out of me, I'll haunt you every moment of every day until your last breath pushes life from your body."

It was serious.

Back in Illinois, the lobster fear was easily managed. It just didn't come up. But here in Maine, it's an obvious character flaw.

And I've carried the shame with me these last three years.

I did try a lobster roll two summers ago at Two Lights Lobster Shack. But what my accomplice didn't realize at the time was that I'd piece by piece replaced the chunks of lobster meat with french fries. So as I posed for pictures and bit down on my sandwich, I really wasn't eating anything more than bread, fries and a tremendous amount of mayonnaise.

Thus, when I was invited to a lobster feed this week, I hesitated a bit. I figured it could only culminate in one of two outcomes: A new-found lobster adoration or permanent metal scarring. Either way, it was time to find out.

Maybe it was a bad idea, but I had to have a look-see at the underwater creatures I intended to split open. It's a tricky thing, meeting your food. (So I discovered this summer when I met a pre-slaughter 4-H pig at the Cumberland County Fair.) But the lobsters just lie there, piled atop one another like a football team just after a tackle.

Harmless, right?

Of course, when someone pulled one from the bin and it began whipping its tail back and forth like a shellfish ninja, I started inventing reasons to leave.

Knowing that any excuse I might muster would be whole-heartedly rejected, I opted to calm my nerves with a drink or two instead.

A couple of good-looking fellas in the kitchen didn't hurt either.

I watched as the lobsters met their watery execution in the pots of boiling water. And for the record, I didn't hear any screaming - from the lobsters or the chefs.

My friend Jesse was kind enough to walk me through the lobster-cracking process. She's the proud daughter of a lobsterman - and is tragically/ironically allergic to the crustaceans. But I couldn't have had a better ally in the endeavor.

And there, amid the steaming plates, glasses of wine and warm conversation, I ate my first lobster. It was Maine utopia. It was the quintessential New England experience that even I didn't believe really existed.

And I'm proud to report that I didn't bow out at the last minute.

I didn't freak out or spit lobster meat into my napkin. I didn't spill butter in my lap, fling a claw across the table or commit any other lobster-eating sins.

It was an all-around lobster success. And now I happily check "eat a lobster" off my list of things to do.

Thanks to kind host Mason and everyone else at the table who were obliging enough to not point and laugh at my naiveté.

Now, have I ever told you how I'm afraid of shrimp?