Lady-Friend thinks I’m a big, fat sissy.
Not that she’s wrong, it’s just that when I feel under the weather– like this past weekend– I tend to become, well, less productive. So when I was feeling like Job, savoring a case of hives piggy-backed to an ongoing case of antibiotic-induced indigestion and crawling into bed to nap the discomfort away, she wasn’t seeing a helpless, vulnerable guy in need of some TLC; no, she was seeing some panty-waist taking a mancation.
Still, whether it’s nine years of marriage or a penchant for self-flagellating appeasement, I… can… maybeseetheperspective.
Here’s a girl who’s endured kidney stones, a dislocated shoulder, 18 miles of a marathon with raging ITB syndrome, two pelvic equivalents of pushing a steamroller through a porthole if you know what I mean (two kids, if you don’t) and lent her face to a sledding experiment on Newton’s “unstoppable force meets immovable object” theory. So yeah- she’s pretty much enjoyed every pain ranked “11″ on the 1-10 pain scale– all while grocery shopping/doing complex math.
Me? I just had to itch and visit the bathroom a lot.
So…. yeah. Lady-Friend’s made out of kevlar, titanium and feminine brawn.
And I’m kind of a sissy pants.
