Jim's seasonal allergies (or should I say "allergies") are about 10% actual, and 90% psychosematic (or however one spells that). Just don't tell him I say so.
It's been driving me nuts this weekend, as it's GORGEOUS outside, but we can't open any windows in thehouse because of his "allergies." Memo to my husband: You don't know this, but as soon as you leave for work, I open every ding dang window in the house. The fresh breeze is good for my soul. And that phone call I ask you to make when you are heading home? You know, so I can plan dinner? It's actually so I know to go around closing all the windows so you don't freak out. Surprise, surprise, your "allergies" haven't been bothering you much at all this fall. But this weekend, I crack a window while you are out doing errands and you come home before I close it and you FREAK OUT how congested you are all how your sinuses are going to explode and how you have to go NOW to take a cocktail of allergie meds and change the filter in the A/C. What-fucking-ever. You may in fact have actual allergies, but I think you have to spend an afternoon frolicing in a field of ragweed before they actually kick in.
(It should be noted that I, too, have seasonal allergies. I get itchy and my eyes get itchy and I have to take out my contacts and then I'm sneezing and sound like a frog. I just choose extra body lotion, long sleeves, wearing my glasses, and the occasional sudafed over being stuck inside a closed up house on a perfect 72 day in September).