My husband is studying the final block of his medical school studies, which — spouses of medical students, allow me to summarize the psychology block with a resounding “uh-oh” as our spouses are now equipped to kill us in 200 different ways AND diagnose us with mental illnesses.
“Hey hey, honey….do I have Schizoid Personality Disorder?”
“um… – reads through list – …nope.”
The sad thing is, that conversation could go either way. Medical students are notorious for becoming well-informed hypochondriacs. I think they call it “Med Student Syndrome.” I’m not really sure why it took my husband until medical school to become a hypochondriac, as I have been one my entire life. And not just that — but certifiably insane in other areas.
Like yesterday, for instance. Yesterday I was eating chicken soup, because that’s what I do when I’m sick. I also whine and bemoan my sorry self and cry out for ginger ale, but that’s beside the point. Yesterday I was eating my chicken soup and happened upon a floating black blob that was oddly worm shaped. There have been many spindly black objects that get mistaken as roach legs in my food, but this looked like it had the strange gooey shape of a flatworm that I once had to murder in high school biology. (My teacher warned me not to name it, but I did, and I was forever scarred.)
I found that suspicious worm-shaped object in my chicken and worried — rather rationally, I might add — that perhaps the chicken had gone bad. It’s been in the fridge for a while. And unlike other wives, I don’t cook things, I just take things that are already cooked in the fridge and throw them in a soup. You should know my issues with the kitchen by now. Upon probing the blob I squealed, gagged, and ran from my soup. No sir, I am not one for having any sort of bug in my food. From the safety of my kitchen I asked my husband to look into my soup for me while I ran to check if the rest of the chicken carcass was worm-infested.
“Don’t tell me if it’s actually a worm!” I cried, as I forced down the remaining bits of chicken in my stomach. I could hear my husband laughing. (Yes, I am a fighting force for feminists everywhere.)
It turns out that this alleged worm was actually a piece of rosemary.
Well, there you are. Perhaps I should cut out American Horror Story from my Netflix queue and go back to watching my husband’s disgusting review slides on dermatology. Actually, no, I think dermatology is worse. Next thing you know, I am going to think I have ring worms.