Hypochondria Woes

I’m dying. It’s official. I’ve checked and if Google can tell me where the nearest Morrisons is and what time True Grit starts on Thursday evening then it can’t be wrong now it’s telling me that I am not long for this world! I’ll laugh at those people who mocked me on Facebook when I said I was ill. I’ll be truly vindicated when I peg it at…..let me just Ask Jeeves…….3.15pm next Wednesday!

I have all the symptoms. Fever, well, I had that last week. Check. Headaches, yup. Chills, brrrrryup. Back pain – I have some of that too. Loss of appetite, well, yes, some. Which in my case must be the sign of an impending doom. Nausea, yup. That’s it. Yellow Fever – I’m certain. I now await the violent end with assured acceptance of my fate and a chance to, retrospectively, rub the noses of the head shakers and doubting Thomas’s in my phlegmy departure from this world.

In actual fact according to Google I’ll die at the age of 75 in 2056 and I have the health of a 32 year old man! What! I’ve lost two years somewhere, Jesus Christ no! I had so many plans, so much to do. Now so little time to do it. But I don’t know who to believe. It also told me I’m most like the Swedish Chef in the Muppets. Not Kermit, Gonzo, nope, I’m the hurdy gurdy chef!  Maybe I ought to consider a career change too? Why didn’t the careers advisor tell me this fifteen years ago? I wasted so much time. Where did it all go wrong?!?!

I think in fact I may have contracted hypochondria. You can catch that right? I’m not sure if I’ve kissed any hypochondriacs of late. Perhaps it was in the air!! I’ve been breathing hypochondriacal air? The thought alone brings back the nausea and I fear I must have a moment. I need a cure, there must be a cure! Ah, I have it. I need a slap! That must be it. Ok I’ve spent the last week coughing up parts of organs I was planning on keeping and innards that were never meant to be outtards, I had a weekend destroyed by a fever but come one now Chris. It’s time, as I’m reminded most days, to “man up”.

The problem I think is that perhaps I’ve not contracted hypochondria so much as it’s been infused into my very soul. A constant workplace chorus of “oh that doesn’t sound very good”, “you don’t look too well” and “should you really be at work” has me doubting myself! I’ve never really been a feeling-sorry-for-myself type before (well not this bad) so why should I be now? That’s it - I hereby give permission to anyone, everyone, to verbally abuse me, slap me (though not the face) and do whatever you feel necessary next time you see me feeling pitifully sorry for myself and wallowing. Tell me to eat more fruit. Suggest perhaps if I made more use of my bike and less of the Xbox that I’d be fitter or that perhaps playing hockey isn’t the best cure. But please don’t offer sympathy, I’ve wallowed in it for too long now!