I have a real problem with sympathy.

More like: I don’t really understand sympathy. Ever.

Well, not ever.

I’ll show sympathy is you’re literally bleeding out or an appendage is bent in a position that isn’t completely normal, even for a double-jointed person. Or maybe if you’re on fire. I can see sympathy for that particular situation.

I hate to totally blame this on any one person in particular but, my issue with non-sympathy comes from a mix of a mom who would yell at me to get up if I fell down on the basketball court or if I wasn’t dying sick (and I love you mom…but do you remember that time when you LEFT ME home – totally alone – to go to Thanksgiving dinner and I was super sick?…Like at least a 101 degree fever…and I had to call you at that person’s house to tell you to come home because I was absolutely positive I was dying? Well, obviously, that night haunts me…) along with various basketball coaches who would also leave me home alone…no. I kid.  I never saw them at home…but these coaches would send the same message to my impressionable young brain and be all, “You’re fine? Good.  Get your ass back in there. We need you.”

One game I can remember vividly was when I was in college.  We were in…it may have been Texas…yes. I think it was Texas.  And here we were, this tiny little D3 school, playing a team that was a smaller D1 school.

(D3 = Division 3… D1 – Division 1…and D1 schools have the bigger, better athletes.  Just FYI for you non-sporty types)

These girls were freaking huge.  Like, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them sipped “The Juice” if you take my meaning.  We were getting our asses handed to us by these behemoths, but we kept on playing…refusing to give up. Eventually, after one too many “accidental” shoves, I got super pissed and started giving it all back to the girl who was guarding me like I was Rebecca Lobo.  I started retaliating every single elbow and shove and hip check she threw at me.

That was apparently the wrong thing to be doing to a girl who is at least three times my size, both vertically and horizontally.

At one point, we were all down under their basket and I was guarding her like white on rice.  This didn’t make her very happy.  At all.  So, she resorted to her douche canoe methods of dirty basketball and threw up her elbow.  It connected with my face, right below my eyebrow, with a force so jarring I saw stars for a second and felt my neck pop a few times.

It felt like she hit me like a SHIT TON of bricks.

Not to be swayed by her antics, I glared at her, rebounded the ball, shook it off and we all started running back down the court.  As I passed half court, this chick ran up beside me and yelled in this sing-songy voice all, “You’re bleeed-ing!”

I put my hand to my eye where she hit me like a mack truck and then put my hand in front of my face, thinking it was “just a flesh wound!”

Ha.  Joke was on me, apparently.  Either that or someone taught her how to hit the sweet spot.  My entire hand was covered in blood.  There was now blood all over the floor.

Blood everywhere.

The ref nearest me saw my face, blew the whistle and walked me over to our bench.  Our trainer, Paul, was like, “Wow.  You may need stitches.”

FAB.  Stitches on my FACE.

*However* because we were at a D1 school and because D1 schools get all the hip, up-to-date medical stuff, while I was laying on the floor getting cleaned up, the other team had their trainer go get skin glue.  Yes.  Glue.  For your skin.  It burns like a sonofabitch but is way better than stitches, I think.

And Paul made me stay flat on my back, on the floor, while my coach was all, “Is she ready?  Is she done?  Jessica you’re fine, right?  Yes? Great.  We need you.”  Paul came to my foggy-headed rescue and was all, “She has to stay here.  On the floor.  You know, so we can make sure she doesn’t have something like a concussion. kapish?”

But, what the hell.  I was fine, right?  I could hear my mom in the back of my head all, “Get up! You’re fine!”  So, the next afternoon I was right back on the floor, playing basketball with a swollen eye and a warning from Paul all, “If you get hit again, the glue isn’t going to hold and then you WILL NEED STITCHES.”

Fortunately, I didn’t get hit there again.

This kind of “situation” happened all the time with basketball.  ALL the time.  No one was ever “hurt” (unless they really were and then it was usually something like a torn ACL or a dislocated shoulder or a broken ankle), you were just banged up and you were expected to get your ass back in the game and suck it up.  Ice it later.

To make my sympathetic matters worse…or less in tune with the “standard response,” I guess, I didn’t grow up in a family where my mom was all, “OHMIGOSH. Are you ok? Are you ok? Are you ok?  Sit down. Relax. Tut, tut! You poor thing!” when I skinned my knee or whatever.

So, now, god we’ve all dealt with the “man cold.”  I mean, it’s the sniffles, dammit.  Your throat hurts?  There’s a spray for that.  Your head?  Take a pill.  Just stooooooop with this moaning and complaining. It’s a COLD.

Tim is usually pretty good about “sucking it up” because he knows I don’t buy the crap.  Remember?  You’d better be dying before I’m going to resort to baby talk and sympathy.  However, sometimes, he’s like, “Would it KILL YOU to show at least SOME SYMPATHY?”

(and the immediate answer that pops in my head is, “Are you dying? No? Then yes, it would.”)

But, the more complex answer is I wasn’t bred for sympathy.

So, now, trying to learn how to be sympathetic for something that isn’t really an “emergency” but instead an issue that is less than catastrophic, just to show I actually do have feelings on the inside?  This is hard for me. It is hard for me to say, “Oh. Ouch.  I’m sorry!  What can I do to make you feel better?”

I feel like such a sissyfuss saying that.  Like I’m helping you wimp out.  When, in reality, it’s really just showing Tim that I actually care he has a splinter.

(excuse me while I roll my eyes and gag)

HOWEVER.

There is some merit to growing a sympathetic bone.  Truly, I feel like a child will give me one automatically…though Tim is skeptical.  Showing sympathy is showing you care, in a sense.  It is showing your spouse that you’re willing to swallow your gag reflex and try to feel sorry for them because, truthfully, when I am the sicky one?

BE NICE TO ME!  FEEL SORRY FOR ME!  DO THINGS FOR ME! DAMMIT!  I’M SICK!

So, I can’t expect sympathy when I never give any.  That’s not completely fair.

I wish it was as easy to give sympathy as it is to receive it…because, oh, we can talk all day about how awesome I am at receiving sympathy.  I’m like, a pro.  A PRO.

PS: I cannot WAIT to tell you about Tim and my “date night” for this weekend!!!!!!!!  I have to hold off until…probably Monday…and I can’t even say why…but just know that IT. IS. FREAKING. AWESOME.