Today I had the unusual pleasure of stubbing my pinky toe on a smooth plastic trash can and having it rip my toenail off. This was, of course, shortly after Mike went to work for the morning. I winced and moaned and yelped and got out the first-aid kit and went to work bandaging it up. While bandaging, of course, I noticed the large amounts of blood, which started me up on the sobbing, which I managed to continue doing for at least the next half an hour. After that it didn't hurt so bad anymore, and I watched some Hana Yori Dango to cheer myself up. Which lasted until Mike got home from work, at which point I told him about my toe and started sobbing again (though only for a couple minutes). It was kind of funny, really, my toe didn't hurt hardly at all anymore, and yet there I was crying just like I had been earlier from the pain, simply because suddenly there was somebody to give me sympathy and comfort and a get-better kiss.
The same thing happens whenever I've gotten hurt or sick during the day if I was by myself when it happened. Mike comes home, and I tell him about it, and start crying. Then he makes me feel better and I get over the massively dramatic trauma, whatever it may have been. :)
I'm glad my husband is so nice and puts up with my silliness. He's a cutie-pie.