Have you seen those commercials where a guy get sick and turns into a whiny, wifey-can-you-fetch-me-some-soup, melodramatic wimp? Hilarious! Except. That kind of man is completely foreign to me.
When my man gets sick? He turns into a grouchy old bear and retreats to his cave. He doesn’t want soup. He doesn’t want sympathy. He sure as hell doesn’t want a handy selection of gossip magazines–which is what I want when I’m sick.
When we first married, this was all sorts of frustrating for me. Here I thought I was being Such A Good Wife by proffering bowls of steaming soup, cold compresses for his head and juicy updates about J-Lo. What I got in return was something that sounded distinctly like: GRROOOOOWWWWL.
The other day, my man was coming down with a cold and the way I knew this was because he went on a cleaning rampage. This is always the first sign. He plows through like 5 loads of laundry, organizes book shelves and decides there’s no better time to rearrange ALL the living room furniture than right this minute. It’s like the Day of Reckoning. Except with sinus pressure.
My man doesn’t bow to sickness until it’s entirely felled him. He thinks doctors are for people bleeding uncontrollably out of at least 3 bodily orifices. Which means if he was bleeding out of 2 orifices? He wouldn’t call the doctor.
I’m guessing his Fight-The-Sickness-Mentality has something to do with the fact that he rarely ever feels weak. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said to him: “Dude, it must be SO AWESOME to walk down a darkened street and not worry about getting raped.”
He’s like: “Uh-huh.” Which is code for: “Yes. I’ve never once worried about getting raped.”
I can’t speak for all women, but I know for myself, I’m reminded of my weakness (comparatively speaking) pretty much like 20 times per day. I can’t reach the highest shelf, I can’t open pickle jars, I avoid dimly lit parking lots. I know I’m a chick, so I adapt accordingly; ie. flashing a charming smile opens pickle jars quicker than trying to break my own wrist by doing it myself.
My man just doesn’t experience weakness on a daily basis. And when weakness hits him in the form of a flu-bug, he doesn’t adapt. He fights back. By cleaning and vacuuming and rearranging furniture.
Which is pretty sexy, if you ask me.
In the end, his being sick is all very convenient since it means my laundry gets done and my house gets straightened. Only then does he go off to his bear cave to recover.
Too bad he only gets sick like once a year.