Just Manflu

I once made the mistake of commenting that a certain man seemed to think he was near death when he "only had a cold." A friend (the insightful Robin Peel) quickly corrected me. He said that men are "either well or are flattened by a particularly nasty man-flu." Man-flu, he gravely informed me, covered all male ailments, and the depths of its insidious suffering is incomprehensible to women.

Be that as it may, I learned a few things from years of observing men during their extremely rare bouts of illness.

When a woman is unwell, she forces herself to shower (after making breakfast for the family), lifts her gland-swollen arms to brush and style her hair, gargles, painstakingly applies make-up to hide her pallid complexion, dresses in clean clothes, matches her shoes to her outfit (just in case she sees someone she knows in the waiting room), and pastes on a brave smile. 

The doctor tells her that she looks great, probably has a cold, and to come back in a week if it doesn't get better.

If a man is sick enough to need medical attention, he crawls into whatever clothing he finds crumpled on the floor. He doesn't shower, shave, or brush his teeth. He limps into the doctor's office, groaning. If he bumps into someone he knows, he's gratified to hear, "You look horrible!" He's ushered into the examination room (ahead of all the well-groomed women), gently placed on the table with a soft pillow and heated blanket, and given a battery of tests and chest x-rays. 

To find out that he indeed only has a cold. Ahem, I mean, "the vicious and dreadful man-flu."

I'm humble enough to learn from others, so now when I'm in need of medical help, I let my appearance match how I feel.

Instead of brushing my hair, I let it stand on end.

Instead of carefully applying my make-up, I slap it on. If I get blush on my chin or smear eyeliner across my cheek, all the better to emphasize my peaked condition.

Instead of dressing carefully, I pull leggings on under my sweat-soaked pajama top, put on mismatched socks, and attach a pair of Jay's slippers to my feet with duct tape.

When the nurse offers me a chair in the examination room, I instead crawl onto the table and sprawl there like a squashed bug, moaning. 

When the doctor arrives, I open one eye and croak. I don't have to tell him how badly I feel; one glimpse of me sends him hollering for oxygen and a defibrillator. 

Verse of the Day: (Luke 5:31) "Jesus answered them, 'It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.'"

Doctor? Is that you?

P.S. Robin photographs churches in the beautiful English countryside. You can find his unusual, stunning, and funny (like the gargoyle, made by an underpaid stonemason, who moons the village) photos by clicking here. My favorite photo is the wooden cross at Peakirk, probably made by a child for a pet. It always tugs at my heart.