I'm not prone to the usage of many pop culture expressions or slang. Say, like "preggers", "bff", "gaydar", etc. Yes, I do like a little urban lingo, at least my blog self does because I would just get laughed at in real life if I said the word "badunkadunk", as I have in my blog. That said, I can get away with saying, "Oh girl, please" with a slight head wave here because they just think, "She's American. That's how they are." Phew.
Where am I going with this? Though I hate to give in to overrused expressions created by a desperate media, I have to confess to a full and ardent belief in "man flu". I'm sure many of you have experienced this draining and frankly fucking annoying trait in your own partners. DD has recently suffered from it, as her husband had been summoned by the Grim Reaper and granted a reprieve at the final minute. Or so he thought.
My own husband embodies the concept of man flu. He feels as if he is coming down with a cold or the flu, and instantly he is rendered immobile. He must recline, take many fluids, and speak in dramatic tones. Oddly, The Dude has a painful, degenerative hip problem which will probably lead to both hips being replaced by the time he's 45, but that he just gets on with. A slight headache and sore throat? He's dragging himself around the flat like a reanimated corpse, telling me how horrible he feels in three minute increments.
On most occasions, I brush off this annoyance and chalk it up to the fact that men are simply pussies. However, I am on my fourth day of a nasty cold that P. so kindly gave to me, and guess who is seeing the light and hearing the hushed voices of dead relatives ushering to him from beyond? Between my phone call with him at 2.30pm and when he got home at 3.15pm, The Dude magically developed a particularly nasty strain of man flu.
I'll set the stage - P. came down with her cold at the end of last week. Usually a rather delightful baby, she morphed into a snotting, screaming beast. Fine. She's a baby and was in pain. By Sunday, the worst was over for her, but the germs had moved onto me. I woke up Sunday morning with every muscle aching and a very sore throat. The Dude, kind soul that he is, allowed me to sleep in until 10.30am, and then nap for two hours in the afternoon. When he went back to work on Monday morning, I had acquired congestion as well as the existing sore throat and achiness. Despite feeling as if I'd sprinting 30 miles then had my head smacked with an anvil, I looked after Piper all day with no complaint. I woke up with her at 7am that day, and went to bed at 11pm.
I had a rough night on Monday, waking up every half hour or so to blow my nose, chug water, cough, or wipe my very watery eyes. Tuesday morning, knowing the rough day I would have ahead of me, I spent 45 minutes crouched under the duvet, crying and snotting everywhere like the classy lady you know me to be. The Dude attempted to calm me, reminding me that if I could get through the day, I had Wednesday (his half-day) to look forward to. On Wednesday, he would take P. out for a few hours so I could get some much needed rest and silence.
So here we are. Wednesday. I knew my grand plan of blessed sleep was in a shambles as soon as he walked in the door. He shuffled around, and it took about 30 seconds for him to tell me how miserable he felt. I offered to make him food - declined. I said I would get him some meds - shot down. Water? No. He was too far gone and nothing could help him now. Only certain death awaited him.
I spent the rest of the afternoon looking after P., defrosting the freezer, making him some food (eventually consented to), and doing the dishes. In the meantime, he attempted to take a nap (too ill to sleep), eat ("I think I'll just throw it up" - he wasn't), and tell me the many ways in which his malady was rapidly taking over his body. I was even subjected to the very melodramatic, "I think I'm getting the chills. Oh great. And so it begins.", said whilst he was limply sitting on the sofa. Can you imagine? Chills people. Chills. How I'm not spending this very moment picking out a coffin I don't know. I have had a four day headache, a sore throat which makes it difficult to swallow, a 4 pack of tissues a day habit, and I may or may not have pillow earmuffs based on how little I can hear, BUT I still take care of a baby every day and get.on.with.it. Ain't no drama going on here, I just want a fucking nap!
A very humorous moment occurred about an hour ago when The Dude asked me to not use the words "man flu" while he was ill, because it diminishes the seriousness of his ailment. Yes, he was serious. Little did he know that I was blogging about this very subject at the time.
You will be pleased to know that the near-fatal disease has now passed. After resisting food since he arrived home, The Dude treated himself to a little gourmet chicken soup. Not only did he enjoy it, but it cured him instantly. A moment after finishing it he said, "Yeah. That did it. I feel much better now." A missed afternoon of sleep, glorious sleep, and all it would have taken was some chicken soup. Let this be a lesson to you.
P.S. On a different matter entirely, I still am being fucked by Typepad and can't comment on their blogs. I've been on a commenting binge lately, but it has to be everywhere but Typepad. I'm trying to show some love, really. I promise.