I never would have guessed.
When a man is sick, he isn’t just sick, he invented sick. He moans, whimpers, groans, shuffles, sniffles and otherwise makes sure the world knows that he is very, very sick.
Here’s my theory on why they do this, from the chapter in my upcoming book on the subject:
While no one is saying you should feign sympathy when your guy is sick, at least keep in mind that it’s not his fault he’s a big, fat pansy-ass. He’s inherently not good at managing discomfort because he hasn’t been groomed for it virtually since birth the way you have. Between wrangling your pendulous breasts into a constricting, wire-trimmed undergarment on a daily basis, regularly having thousands of tiny hairs ripped off of your body with strips of molten wax, repeatedly wedging your mostly flat and clearly rectangular-shaped feet into triangular footwear perched on top of twin four-inch spikes, and let’s not forget occasionally pushing another human being the size and shape of a large watermelon (sorry, a watermelon with shoulders) out of your vagina—or alternately, having the watermelon-person or people pulled out through a man-made gash in your abdomen—you know what pain is. And it’s not a little tickle in the back of your throat or a blocked freaking nostril.
What I want to know is: How do you deal with him? Do you pamper him? Ignore him? Send him to his mother’s?