Whine Like A Baby

After a couple of weeks of everyone taking turns at being sick, I have confirmation on the following:

A running nose and sore sinuses open a gigantic can of whoop ass on testosterone.

All of the ladies that just read that pay for homework statement are rolling their eyes and saying to themselves, “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.” Nothing turns a man into a heaping helping of self pity like a common cold. Suddenly, the same person that can play an entire soccer game with a broken finger becomes completely paralyzed without copious amounts of cough drops and Robitussin.  The world stops revolving and anyone that can breathe through both nostrils is clearly sitting in a seat of superiority.

Each of my men have taken turns under the “comfy blankie”.  There they sit, talking about their litany of aches and pains when getting up from the sofa to perform basic duties such as walking, urinating and lifting a fork.

The same guys that proudly show off their scars from many less-than-judicious decisions, like wrestling on pavement or playing football in bare feet, somehow turn into a puddle when infiltrated by a microscopic virus that runs its course in 24 hours.

Being sick stinks. I hate it too. But somehow, the kinder, gentler species knows the phrase press on a little more intimately. Women still go to work, grocery shop, pick up kids, even work out when they are sick. Guys are sniveling wimps. I wonder how the same boys that can strategically plan for a zombie apocalypse or other catastrophic events that will never happen on this side of reality simply don’t comprehend moving through the inevitable cold and flu season.

It’s no small wonder that nature has designed reproduction to be carried by a woman. I’m certain that if men were required to give birth humanity would have ended several millennia ago. Just imagine the whaling and gnashing of teeth that would ensue if a guy had to go through anything that involved pain and bleeding anywhere near the area of their unmentionables. There would probably be a cure for childbirth or every company would have a mandatory one year leave policy complete with post traumatic stress therapy and a smokin’ hot stay at home nurse.

In the end, all is well when the flu bug has exited the building.  The chest thumping and locker room talk will commence again.  All will be right and well with the world. My guys will go back to their walk-it-off-its-only-a-flesh-wound mentality and I will retain my title as ……the toughest chick in the building.