I have found something ultimately much worse than Man Flu.
Girl Flu.
For years women have poked fun at men for complaining at the slightest sniffle, for declaring themselves bed bound when prescribed lemsip, for fearing they have a pandemic disease with every cough and sneeze, or for feeling they can not go on in life because the Kleenex box is hindering their view of ‘Robot Wars’ and they can’t summon the energy to move it.
To a degree I sympathise with women who suffer partners with piffling symptoms that render them unable to wash up, put out the bin, mow the lawn or even organise their dirty boxers into the laundry basket – it must be a nightmare!
I on the other hand have this problem in reverse.
The man I own is of a different breed, one that doesn’t complain when he is poorly, never takes days off sick, offers to sleep in the spare room when suffering an infection and doesn’t even reach for the vicks vapour rub when the situation gets particularly congested. Instead he battles on through, takes vitamin C, drinks plenty of fluids, and is annoyingly perky despite being surrounded by a sea of tissues or looking like he could head Santa’s fleet.
‘So what are you complaining about?’ you might ask, what more could a woman want!
Well you see I have a cold. It’s gunky and snotty and sore and miserable, and nothing would make me feel better than to have a good moan about it.
But I can’t….because women don’t do that.
So instead I am stuck with having ‘Girl Flu’ – a condition you want to whinge about but are unable to because girls have set a precedence of dealing with most/any ailment with a ‘get-up-and-go’ attitude, a teasing smile and an extra application of blusher…
Great.
I guess this one is just going to have to be filed under the ‘annoying things about being a girl’ category, along with ‘wearing lipgloss in windy conditions’, ‘evil foot eating shoes that look nice’ and ‘bra strap bingo’ (underwear that escapes your clothing). I’ll just have to be grateful I will never experience male pattern balding and windward nostril hair…
On a lighter note (an attempt to steer away from mucus now), I returned to the office this morning after a few days away to find someone had arranged my name in clothes pegs.
How thoughtful.
I moan like no other when ill. I am terrible for not going to the doctor so a slight infection can often manifest to something man-flu like. Poor old Helen is so good at looking after me, even when I wake up crying (it doesn’t take much for me) saying “its just not funny anymore”. I, on the other hand, am a self-confessed matron of the 50’s and give Helen medical attention you would complain about even if you were in the poorest countries. I justify this by stating that I never said I was any good. Maybe we could hire you when Helen gets a bit ropey?