When you’re an occasional hypochondriac like I am, you spend a fair amount of time googling your health issues (sidebar to this: pretty much any combination of symptoms you google will come back with a top web result of pregnancy. So, back pain and sneezing = pregnancy. Dry mouth and red eyes – ditto. Seriously – try this googling sometime. It leads me to believe that 1) pregnant people complain a lot; and 2) there are a lot of confused male hypochondriacs out there). But anyway, I never, ever go to the doctor unless I am either on death’s doorstep and have to be rushed to the emergency room, or I need new contacts. Instead, I just trust to google and Aleve and the pity of my germophobic colleagues. 

And of course, when you trust WebMD for all your health issues, you need someone to bounce the ideas off – otherwise, you’d spend all your time going around saying things like, “I think I have Sjoren’s Syndrome because I’m super-thirsty.” So I turn to Will as my professional second opinion on my illnesses. This is where we run into trouble, and the trouble, of course, has to do with sports. Sports knowledge, which takes up about 88% of Will’s brain (leaving the remainder for things like “this scotch has an aftertaste of burned sugar and Calvados” and MF Doom lyrics and a little bit of that law school-related education he just finished). And apparently, this sports knowledge is what he uses to confirm or deny my medical conditions.

Sometimes this works out in my favor – for example, when I feel a stabbing pain in my foot and I can’t put weight on my heel and I do some internet detective diagnosing and say something like, “Will, I think I have plantar fasciitis,” and he says, “Oh my gosh – Natalie. That’s REALLY bad.” And then I get filled with hope that I might be in for some pampering treatment and at the very least not have to get up and get my own glass of water when I get thirsty right in the middle of a really thrilling episode of “Chopped.” And then, I think about this response and ask a silly question like, “Wait – you agree?! How do you even know what plantar fasciitis is?” and he responds, of course, with, “Well, I’m not sure exactly what it is, but when one of my fantasy baseball players gets it, they have to be out for the remainder of the season.” Riiiiight. As long as it garners me sympathy and a potential scalp massage, let’s go with that. 

And then, there are other times when sickness and sports miscellany don’t exactly go together – like when you’re having a long-distance phone conversation and you can’t even pronounce words properly thanks to extreme and debilitating sinus pressure and general yuckiness. Then you say something like, “I dodt thingk I cad work oud tonigd because by allergies are boddering me so buch. By dose is really stuffy and I cadnt breadthe bery gud.” And, instead of that lovingkindness and sympathy you expected from your oh-so-pathetic utterances, you get the response of, “Of course you can work out. Didn’t Michael Jordan win Game Six with the flu? And all you have is allergies.” 

So much for sympathy. Instead of lolling in the recliner for the remainder of the night, I got up, laced up my shoes (not Air Jordans, I must add) and did the workout. Thanks a lot, MJ, for, you know, taking it to a whole different level and all that. But I bet you were never allergic to oak pollen. Flu – psshhhh.

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