Dear Husband: You're Not Dying, You Have A Cold

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Dear Men: You're Not Dying, You Have A Cold

You think you're suffering, and that's ridiculous.

Oh, you have a tickle in your throat? I'm so sorry. That must be very uncomfortable. And you've felt tired all day? Like all you want to do is lay down? Like maybe you'll take a sick day tomorrow so you can get through the worst of this?

You feel icky and like you don't have an appetite and like maybe you should just have a hot toddy and watch TV.

You're f*cking adorable.

Let me tell you a little bit about being sick, husband, and about your sad little cold.

Did you know that every month, women the world over go through three to ten days of stabbing, wrenching pain that we have no option of taking time off from work to coddle? Did you know that when women go into emergency rooms, doctors and nurses take their complaints of pain less seriously than those of men?

Did you know that women spend their entire lives learning to suck it up and get their sh*t done, because if they don't they'll always be seen as weaker and less-than and inferior to men with your adorable little colds?

You lay in the bed, blowing your nose sadly while you play your damn video games, and you know what I'm doing? I'm making the kids dinner. I'm doing the laundry. I'm doing my job as well as all the jobs of house and childcare. And on top of that, I have the same damn cold.

That's right, we live in the same cesspool of germs and toxic sludge. We sleep in the same bed, for god's sake. When you're so sad and sick and miserable with your runny nose and your watery eyes, I guarantee I'm going through the same thing.

But you know what I'm not going to do about it? Whine.

I'm not going to tell my boss I might not be in the next day, because I'm already getting paid a third what I would if I had the luxury of the "man cold." I'm already being passed over for opportunities because I'm a Lady instead of a Man, and don't you know, Ladies get sick and whatnot, what with their weird Lady problems.

Women have been living with the exact same germs, the exact same bacteria and viruses as our male counterparts since we figured out verbal communication and the way to keep a fire burning. And women have always seemed to know something it seems men don't: It's just a f*cking cold.

You're not dying. Hell, by any reasonable standards you're hardly even sick. Your throat hurts a bit. My chest hurts every day from the underwires holding my boobs in a place that looks "professional" or "presentable" or "f*ckable," which is a non-negotiable aspect of surviving in a world run by men.

Your eyes are watery? That's cute. I once ended up stabbing myself in the eye with an eyelash curler. I was distracted by the gut-wrenching pain of my uterine lining detaching from my body and being forced out in a bloody wave by a series of uncontrollable soft tissue muscle spasms.

You're tired? Every time I look into my closet I have to decide if the clothes I wear are going to define not only my day, but my entire freakin' life. If I get assaulted in this dress, will a police officer say I'm asking for it?

If I have to run away from a creepy dude in a subway station, am I going to need flats? If I wear flat shoes and comfortable shirt, is a potential client going to think I don't take my career seriously? Am I willing to throw this blouse away if our kid spews blueberry oatmeal all over it?

Women are tired of your sh*t. No, not just yours  all men. We're tired of you making every aspect of our lives difficult, and then claiming how horribly ill and miserable you are when you get a wee little virus that makes your nose feel like a lead-filled balloon attached to your face.

It's a cold. It's not thousands of years of oppression or anything.

Take some damn Sudafed and get over yourself. Push through the obviously unbearable agony and get your crap together. It's what we women do every day.


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