You’ll be fine.”
Undercooked beef is another of Time Bomb’s “migraine triggers,” and sometimes commercial wheat buns are brushed with white flour, which makes her sneeze. Time Bomb simply doesn’t like the texture of cooked vegetables, and she refuses to eat them.
“I suppose the new blankets Mr. Nice Guy bought are wool,” she sniffs.
Oh yes. Wool makes Time Bomb’s skin break out in hives.
“And he probably bought down-filled pillows.” Time Bomb is allergic to goose feathers, too. She sneezes preemptively, in her characteristic triplets. “Ah-shee! Ah-shee! Ah-SHAH!”
It takes great effort by The Statistician to prevent himself from rolling his eyes or sighing. He estimates that the ratio of the number of his wife’s spurious, psychosomatic ailments, compared to the number of actual physical/chemical reactions she suffers, is about 4 to 1.
“We’ll bring our own blankets,” he offers. “And the hypoallergenic pillows, okay?”
“It would be a lot less trouble if you just went by yourself,” she says.
Indeed, the Statistician thinks to himself, it would be a lot less trouble. He is very careful to ensure that his facial expression does not betray this thought, though.
Yesterday, The Statistician merely raised an eyebrow when Time Bomb mispronounced every other syllable in the phrase “unequivocally effete” over champagne and chèvre-on-toast with her favourite shopping/manicure/lunch buddy, and Time Bomb countered with a “joke” that they would be still be eating Kraft Dinner and sipping Budweiser from plastic cups if they had to rely solely on The Statistician’s income.
“Thank God for my trust fund!” said Time Bomb.
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