As you may know by now, the Hubs grew up with wolves in Alaska, roaming the silent woods, hunting, tracking, fishing, baying at the moon, and generally giving an excellent impersonation of Huck Finn.
Whereas, yours truly grew up in residential Dallas, Texas, with curbs and sidewalks, roaming the suburban jungle of malls and movie theaters, eating cookie dough, hiding from the heat, eating cookie dough, and attending every touring band’s a few rock concerts.
So I shouldn’t be surprised that the Hubs has more sensitive hearing than I.
But this last time when he stopped making tuna salad and abruptly left the kitchen as I started to eat potato chips that he bought hello, WHO did WHAT?, I busted him on it.
Oh, sure he claimed he suddenly felt a need to pick up crap in the living major tip-off, but I knew. Oh, I knew.
He walked out because of my eating.
He claims it’s just like my claustrophobia or aerophobia, but given the calm, anxiety-free look in his eyes, I called bullshit politely disagreed.
Then I had a consult with Dr. Google, and together we have now accurately diagnosed the issue as misophonia, or more commonly known as, “Mr. Fussypants.”
Misophonia, literally “hatred of sound”, is a form of decreased sound tolerance, also known as Selective Sound Sensitivity Syndrome or 4S.
Notice dear readers, wiki, master of the universe, does not define it as a phobia, so that settles that, now doesn’t it? Being annoyed does not count, does it anxiety-sufferers??
Sadly, they have found no cure, or even mildly helpful treatments for 4S. Perhaps a telethon with subtitles only?
In the Hubs’ case, the hated sound in question is food crunching.
Which is yet another cruel joke from God unfortunate for him since he married a crunchoholic (how is there no wiki page on that?) who is not afraid to use sex as a weapon.
Yes, my love of crunchy food is only topped by my love of foods you can eat with your hands, preferably in a tortilla-shaped object. Best of all, crunchy food you eat with your hands.
All of which discovery leads us (and by “us,” I mean me and Dr. Google) to conclude that a) the Hubs is a sick puppy with problems untreatable by Dr. Google (gasp!) and b) …okay, I have no “b.” Mainly, sick puppy.
See how self-enlightening it is to be in a longterm relationship? And isn’t it nice to have a label to put on your significant other? I know I feel better.
Now, excuse me because I just found out about a great new Sun Chips flavor, Peppercorn Ranch!
Are you sound sensitive in any way? Or is someone you live with? And are you torturing helping them with their issues?
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