I’m sick. Dog sick. I woke up yesterday with a throat that felt like I tried to swallow a brick. I tried to get out of bed, but couldn’t. So, I rolled onto my back and summoned my wife by ringing a little bell.
She loves that.
The first thing you should know about me is that I’m a real man — if I haven’t disclosed that already. And men are not good at being sick. This is because we grew up with a mama whose sole occupation in life was to:
1. make grilled cheeses.
2. rub our tummies.
Women make good mothers because, it’s a proven fact, they’re experts in the field of sickness. Take my wife, Jamie, for instance, she’s a professional sick person. Whenever she’s ill, she sports pajamas, watches movies, reads books, plays crosswords, pays bills, writes thank-you cards, recaulks the bathroom, and paints the den.
Whenever I’m sick, I lay on my stomach without pants, and ring my bell.
Look, we men become depressed when we’re sick. It’s biological. Most days, we work harder than Forty-Mule-Team Borax, doing strenuous activities like watching ESPN Draftpicks. But now, due to crippling fatigue and moderate sinus pressure; I need a grilled cheese.
Remember, don’t use cheddar, my mama makes hers with American. Also, sweetie, if you’re going to the store, could you pick up some chips? I’m feeling weak. Just ringing this little bell makes me lightheaded.
Have you seen the remote?
I’m out of Gatorade.
Ladies, don’t resent us for being like this. You’d be this way too if your mothers spoiled you like ours did. Our mama’s rolled the televisions into our bedrooms, spoon fed us, then took our temperatures with thermometers designed for Shetland ponies — and I don’t mean under the tongue. Whenever we rang our little bells, mama brought grilled cheeses cut into quarters, garnished with potato chips, and all the ginger ale we could stand.
So go easy on us. Put yourselves in our shoes. Imagine how life-anguishing it would be if your wife forgot to cut your damn sandwich.
Then smashed your bell with a hammer.