I’m feeling kind of icky tonight. Nothing major, just a body achey, stomach bothering me kind of thing. I made the mistake of mentioning this to my husband, thinking I could gin up some sympathy, and just maybe get a break from the always aggravating task of putting Justin and Alex to bed. Instead of concern or compassion, I was treated to an elongated sigh of irritation and a thinly veiled accusation about how I likely brought the illness on myself for the specific purpose of inconveniencing him.
This from the person who, when he gets sick (which is with greater frequency than me), accuses God and all the forces of the universe of a conspiratorial plot to rain scourge and disease down upon his body. “Why me?” is a phrase uttered over and over and over. And everyone knows how men cope when confronted with a deadly case of the sniffles. Like a clock tower, news of the fact that he is sick is heralded every half hour.
So really I can’t win here. The only way my child-rearing obligations would be reduced is if this turns into a full-on stomach flu, complete with all kinds of intestinal dysfunction, fever, and chills that render me physically unable to perform such duties. I don’t want that. But if I wake up tomorrow feeling fine, that just means I’ve suffered tonight in silence, and lose credibility the next time I complain of a slight malady.
Men. Can’t live with them, pour me another glass of wine.
© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2011