Our relationship is just easy. This is due in large part to how incredibly chill W is. Seriously, he is so laid back.
Now, don't get me wrong. He is still as anal and Type A as every other Med Student and Doctor out there.
For instance, he does our laundry.
Why, you may wonder?
Because, if he didn't, I would murder him.
On the rare occasion that I *attempt* the laundry, here are the barrage of questions and/or advice I get either before, during or after:
"Did you use extra hot water on those towels?"
"Use cold on those darks."
No, really? I want them all to turn a dull shade of puce.
"Don't forget the OxyClean. I like my shirts white-white."
DO YOU THINK I'M AN IDIOT. OXYCLEAN WAS MY IDEA, W. FOR YOUR PIT STAINS. TAKE THAT.
"Don't dry my jeans."
This is the part where I drop the laundry basket and stalk off to watch reality tv.
Because, I mean, come on. We've been living together for nearly 4 years, W.
I KNOW YOU DON'T, HAVE NEVER, WILL NEVER, DRY YOUR EFFING JEANS.
And this, Friends, is why W does the laundry. And for the record, I have never once re-colored any loads of laundry or shrunk anything. Except, I did accidentally dry a pair of W's jeans, but I honestly thought they were mine! They shrunk a bit, but neither he nor I really liked them anyways. Win-win.
I love W heartily and lately, I have really been enjoying our conversations. We can talk earnestly about the most mundane things all the while making torrents of fun of each other.
These conversations usually end with W cackling and remarking his usual, "You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met."
And with me saying, "LEAVE. GO STUDY."
These conversations are so stupid I won't burden you with them, but I did want to highlight a few of my favorite situations and remarks from dear W.
First of all, if you haven't noticed from previous pictures, W is a big guy. He is 6'3 and 3/4" (he will actually tell you this) and just over 200 lbs. He has always been muscular (even without trying) with like 1% body fat. Yes, I do hate him most of the time. His physique is, of course, due to genetics, but mostly it is thanks to the gallons of whole milk he has consumed on a weekly basis since leaving the womb. He loves milk. Keeping up his supply is mostly why we are so poor. True story. He has admitted to me countless times that if it wouldn't be weird, he would totally drink heavy cream, too. Yes, drink. Again, true story.
He is a milk-guzzling machine.
I am not. I enjoy the occasional bowl of cereal and small glass before bed, but most of the milk consumption in our household is by W. When I got on my running kick, I decided to clean up my diet a bit. I was also having horrible stomach pains that I thought were a result of my diet (pre-gluten free). I started to make spinach smoothies for breakfast and therefore began using more milk. Realizing my age and beginning to understand my fat intake, I decide that whole milk was not the best option for me. I grew up drinking 2% milk and thought that or even 1% would be a better option for me and really, for both of us. I mentioned switching to 2% to W.
Grooooaaaan. No, he liked his whole milk.
I reminded him that he would be turning, ahem, 30 soon.
Yeah, but .....
I then reminded him that the pediatrician he had been rotating with switched her patients (who are TWO YEAR OLDS, BY THE WAY) from whole milk to 2% milk after THE AGE OF TWO.
Yeah, but .........
I started buying 2% anyways. Really, heart health, W. Aren't you going to be a PHYSICIAN!?
You wouldn't believe what happened next, just a few days ago to be exact. We are driving back from our Friday night Mexican and margs treat, when W casually says,
"So, I'm thinking about switching to skim milk."
Yes, my jaw is still resting on the floor from that one.
Thank God I was sitting down and not eating or drinking anything because I surely would have hurt myself.
I don't understand him at all. Not one bit.
He went on to explain that there is some brand of milk out there that is skim but tastes and feels like whole.... yadda yadda yadda.
I will believe it when I see it, W.
Finally, I will leave you with one more event/conversation that still has me cracking up.
W and I went on a run yesterday. I am "training" for a half marathon (riight), so I had planned to run at least 4 miles. Usually, W and I keep pace with one another, since you know, a few weeks ago he just decided to be a runner and got up and ran 3.5 miles, no problem. However, yesterday, W's legs (in the shin region) started to hurt (pretty badly for him to complain). He had to stop several times. I kept going and meeting back up with him. Finally, I finished 4.5 miles and was ecstatic. It was .5 more than I had planned. That is a huge accomplishment for me. But, W, well, he was hurting pretty badly. I could also tell that it extended beyond the physical, but I didn't say anything. We got back to our apartment and were sitting on the floor opposite one another stretching, and I could tell that, indeed, something was wrong.
When W gets worried, he gets this look on his face that is at once haughty and annoyed and angry--but its his worried face.
He was sitting there examining his shins, pressing on them, removing his shoes, feeling the tops of his feet. Basically, he was acting all doctor-like.
"What's up?" I asked.
He said that his shins had never hurt like that before. He pointed out the two ping pong ball sized knots on the side of both of his legs. He pushed my fingers into the tight muscle. I could tell that he was "pulling a B"--or totally freaking out.
"I just can't stop thinking about compartment syndrome," he said.
"Compartment syndrome," I said. "I saw that on an episode of Bones. Don't you need some kind of severe trauma for that?" Yes, I learn things on TV. Impressive, right?
"No!" he snapped at me. "Do you know how many times I've gotten the question, 'A man in his thirties goes out for a jog and comes back with painful and swollen shins..........What is the diagnosis? Answer: Compartment Syndrome,' on board's review?!"
"No," I said. "I'm sorry. I don't know that much about it. I'm sure you're fine."
W, by the way, had been continuously checking and re-checking his vitals and legs.
"I just know too much," he said. "Do you know how to treat compartment syndrome?"
Oh, me! Me! I do know!
"Don't you have to slice open the skin?" I asked.
"Yeah, to relieve the pressure. You could lose a foot," he said.
SCORE ONE FOR THE BONES FAN. (You know, its the episode where Bones and Hodgins are kidnapped by the grave digger and buried alive in the car.)
Y'all, honestly. At this point, I'm trying my best to keep a straight face. You see, W, ever the rational one, has become a bit of a hypochondriac since starting medical school.
There was this time last year where he thought he had cancer, not once, BUT TWICE. And on one of the occasions, it was just a swollen sweat gland in his armpit. But it was DEFINITELY CANCER. And like, the really deadly kind.
Its not funny, I know. But if you knew W, you would totally be laughing right now.
Now, me? I am a hypochondriac. There's no denying it. There's no question. I think a flesh-eating bacteria is hiding around the corner at any given moment just waiting to eat my face off. Serial killers? Rapists? They are cake. Just the thought of flesh-eating bacteria will reduce me to hyperventilation and tears.
This is something I live with daily, so I felt for W. I did. But, come on. There's only room for one hypochondriac in this marriage!
I kept my cool and fetched him some ice, a strawberry and banana smoothie (potassium for the cramps, which is all that they were) and a big glass of water.
Don't worry about W. It was indeed NOT compartment syndrome. Surprise, surprise.
Of course, he was still checking his vitals hours later (ie: feeling for the pulse on the top of his foot and checking flexibility), but all was well.
He's just a big baby, and I love all 200+ lbs. of him.