Comforting the Comforter

As I sneeze and cough, I find myself envying my husband. Actually, I covet what he has. Before your mind takes a wild leap, I'm not talking penis envy here.

I wish I had a wife, like he has. When he is sick, his wife (aka me) keeps hm comfortable, brings him food, rubs his aching back, pours tylenol down his open mouth. Keeps the ice coming, he loves ice water. Pile blankets over his freezing feet. He has neuropathy and is 'freezing.' So I stoke the fire. You get the picture. I am woman, therefore I am a comforter. It isn't a guy thing, in my wistful experience.

Most men prefer to solve abstract problems, like letting his wife know she should move over to the slow lane now. Even suggested recently that maybe she should take one of those driving classes for seniors now that he had to give up his license Men often do other stuff like taking out the trash, change light bulbs, wonder if someone should feed the cats. Someone is my other name, by the way. As for making a cup of hot tea and adjusting your pillow just right, not in his gender description. There must be some exceptions, though.

Come to think of it, in my childhood home, my father was the comforter. When I threw up in the middle of the night, my dad took care of it, letting my mother sleep. He gave me yummy hot toddies for a sore throat, had sympathetic brown eyes, curly mustache and soft brown eyes. His only flaw, a gambling addiction.

Well, the guy in this house, is only addicted to pampering , so getting another wife is not the answer either. I'll just have one more mouth to feed, while she brings him his slippers. Wish I had a hot toddy about now.

So Says Sassy