Tia: A cure for what ails you.

I love my husband.

But the dude has a few issues.

Seriously.

When Hubs and I met, we were barely 24. We used to hang out a lot at this bar right by my work, in the neighborhood in which we grew up. That first night at the bar, my husband seemed like a regular guy. He'd been working hard to rehab this sport fishing boat that his parents had bought, plus working his regular shipyard job, and he was tired a lot. His daily work-wear consisted of scrubby fish shirts and deck boots.

That night at the bar, his hands and arms were beat up and scratched from sanding fiberglass. At 6'3", he towered over me, strong and kind of shy, wearing the same outfit as the rest of the off-duty boat guys: track pants and a hoodie, with a day's growth of stubble and a hat pulled low over his eyes.

I liked it. He was the epitome of a real man. A man that worked with his hands for a living. A man that wasn't afraid to get down and dirty.

(Ahem.)

All of that is true.

Here's what wasn't apparent: Hubs suffers from a not-so-textbook case of hypochondria.

Hypochondria, loosely defined, is a preoccupation with your health, and a tendency to over examine and self-diagnose non-existent problems.

The reason I say that Hubs' particular affliction is non-typical is because he tends to focus on problems that aren't evident, and ignore obvious wounds. Working all day long at his physically demanding job that keeps him in good, strong shape? No problem! Eating something that he's never had before? Not enough sleep, causing a headache? Potential catastrophe.

For example: Hubs comes home from work after a long day of doing whatever it is that he actually does. (I think it has something to do with propellers) We kiss. He is dirty (per usual.) He takes off his shirt and heads to the shower. I notice a large bruise and/or scrape on his back/chest/arm/leg.

ME: Your back/chest/arm/leg is bruised/scraped!

HUBS: Oh. Huh. I dunno. Didn't notice.

(Hubs is a man of few words. Except when he's telling me exactly why I can't buy something. Then he can be a little long winded.)

ME: You should put some ice/a bandage on that!

HUBS: Eh.

(Once again, few words. He does have a tendency to tell the MOST POINTLESS stories ever. I usually have to help him along otherwise people will die of old age before he finishes.)

On the other hand, Hubs has what I like to call "ailments". Ailments are afflictions that Hubs suffers from, stoically (he thinks), frequently, invisibly, and not-so-quietly.

Hubs' ailments usually coincide with whatever is wrong with other people. His mom gets a migraine, so does Hubs. His dad suffers from shoulder pain, Hubs' arm hurts too. My stomach acts up, Hubs is suddenly nauseous.

At first, I was concerned. Should I take him to the doctor? His symptoms were so varied and random, I didn't think our physician would know where to begin. His tiredness? Sore arm/shoulder/wrist/knee/leg? His bad back? His headaches? His upset stomach?

Then, as time went on, I noticed the pattern in his sudden afflictions.

Hubs is a sympathy sufferer.

He doesn't want you to go it alone. Your pain is his pain. And, his might be a little worse. Just ask him.

Like I said, at first I was concerned. And sympathetic.

Three years later, game over. His imaginary ailments are now blog fodder, fair and square.

So you can imagine his chagrin when he had to tell me of his most recent pain: the bike mishap.

In all reality, his injuries from falling off the bike are legit. His right elbow is deeply scraped, and both of his knees are bruised. But by now, he knows me, and he knows about this blog, and so our post-bike-accident conversation went something like this:

HUBS: My arm really hurts.

ME: (not looking up from computer) Mmm hmm.

HUBS: Yeah. It's pretty bad. I mean, yeah.

ME: (peering over computer screen) Oh really?

HUBS: (pretending to be interested in something across the room, not meeting my eyes) Because, you know, the hill was really steep.

ME: (beginning to smirk, figuring I'll take the bait) What happened?

HUBS: (still appearing nonchalant, picking at his sock) Well, I fell off my bike. Didn't I tell you?

ME: (struggling to appear straight-faced) No, you didn't. Are you okay?

HUBS: *sighs* Yeah, of course. My arm and legs are REALLY scraped though. I don't think it helped my shoulder any. I mean, I fell right on it.

ME: (trying to covertly type a few sentences without him noticing, in order to help jog my memory for the writing of this post) I'm sorry.

HUBS: You're totally going to blog about this, aren't you?

ME: No! *laughing snort* Okay, maybe.


The way I figure it is this: Hubs needs me. If it wasn't for me, he'd be an old man with a hip replacement scheduled. I remind him that he is only 27, and that this too shall pass.

(Because it's imaginary.)

AND I get a blog post out of it.

Everybody wins.

(I might win more, though. He mainly just gets made fun of. In a loving way.)

(Clearly.)