Mansplaining Manflu To My Woman
Stoicism in the face of certain death
One New Year’s Day, my beau and I both woke up sick. An assuredly strong start and shrewd move for 2025…which is apparently already trying to cock block me. Well played 2025, well played.
While our recent swapping-spit ‘scapades would tell me that we both caught the same shitty cold, if you ask Mike—he caught The Bubonic Plague.
We went to the dog park (where we met), and he said I didn’t seem sick at all. His energy levels looked like whatever the opposite of Red Bull is. He complained of body aches, but my body aches on the regular from my Ehlers-Danlos syndrome so it didn’t bug me much. I’m invincible like that.
My face is leaking like an old faucet though, so there’s that.
We’ve been joking back and forth about ‘the sickness’, and he forced me to admit that he is, in fact, sicker than me. A fact that does seem true, since I’m still being semi-productive while he lays in what I can only assume is a home-base intensive care unit.
He clearly caught….drum roll….Man Flu.
It’s a little-known fact, but The Bubonic Plague—the plague that decimated Europe by killing between 25–50 million in the mid 1300s—was….Man Flu. According to men, it persists to this day and is equally as lethal. The only known cure is large amounts of pity, football, and coddling.
The good news is, my nose has almost stopped running and my head has cleared a little.
Oh, and Mike will survive, probably.
For proof of life—here’s a picture I took today of me and Mike’s dog, Tyson.
Tyson, much like Mike, tries to make out with me. So if Tyson ends up with Man Flu next, then we’ll know that I’m patient zero.
Anyhoo, enough about the plague on both our houses. Let’s move on to another plague happening across the pond—where the deadly Man Flu has my good friend Peter in its fatal talons.
Peter is a sensational writer and a good buddy of mine. He is regularly curated on Medium.com because he’s balls-to-the-wall awesome—and has pieces wild enough that they wouldn’t dare curate (those are my favorite hehe). If you have a moment, please check him out and consider subscribing.
But first, read his story about Man Flu…it may be his last piece of writing as he sheds this mortal coil…
*Oh, and I didn’t tell Peter—but I added funny GIFs to help illustrate his despair. You’re welcome ! 😆
Mansplaining Manflu To My Woman
Breezy mornings though all windows are closed.
Winter in Anatolia can be a biting beast. Seasons change fast. If you don’t keep up the frost can dig into your lungs creating jagged crystalized mucus that ruptures on every cough.
The New Year is barely upon us, and I am ill again, but I fear I shan’t survive this time.
It’s cancer or some disease picked up from working too hard.
Days working muscles and the mind take a heavy toll.
I am trying to be strong but even tying my tie with this deadly disease is difficult.
My petite and kind wife is making me tea to soothe my rugged throat. The stupid woman doesn’t know that death can not be averted with lemon and water.
“I’m dying. Leave me for a younger man, my love!” I softly say through a crackle of dried mucus.
“Peter, it’s just a cough. You need to stop sleeping naked,” She gently suggests.
Dumb.
“Have you become unattracted to me, woman?” I enquire as I light my third 6 am cigarette and throw back a black coffee. ‘Doesn’t she know testicles need to be free?’ I ponder and open up a YouTube video on Stoicism in the face of death.
‘Never stop learning,’ is my morning mantra.
“You need to wrap up. It’s December and you're still walking around town in sandals and shorts,” She says.
“If a man can’t wear shorts in December, he has no freedom. He is just a seagull chasing the fishing boats,” I light another cigarette and step out onto the balcony to breathe in the icy morning air.
“You went to the mountain yesterday, too. You’re just run down. Take some Nyquil and you’ll be fine,” Ms Fauci says as she applies her war paint for another day of work.
“It’s a blood clot or chest cancer, I know it. What else could it be? This awful dying sensation spells the end. The passwords to the accounts are in the office but give my guitar to my brother. You may remarry. I pardon you.”
“Can you give your share of the rent?” She’s looking at our bills that are hung on our fridge along with memories of when I was healthy.
“You’ll have to cover this month. I’m taking the week off. Ever since the vaccine, I have been weak. I need a steak.”
“Anthony, you’re not dying. You’re just dramatic,” she sighs, pouring me another tea.
I sip it slowly, savoring my final moments. “If stoicism in the face of terminal illness is dramatic, then yes. Guilty as charged.”
She rolls her eyes and heads to the door. “I’ll see you tonight, Lazarus.”
As the door clicks shut, I cough into the empty room. “She’ll miss me when I’m gone,” I mutter.
Lighting a cigarette I ponder, ‘Who the fuck is Lazarus?’
I’d love for you to check out more from Peter. After all, he doesn’t have long to live, probably…
If you haven’t subscribed to me yet, you should…probably.
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Hey Robin!
I'm still alive, barely.
It's an honor to collab with someone so funny, cool, awesome and most importantly, kind.
Thank you for sharing and get well soon. ❤️
Brilliant. Subscribed. (for free though - I'm a writer, therefore, skint)
I do want to share my Manflu tip though. I stopped calling it manflu long ago, once I realised that no matter what partner I was with, mentioning 'manflu' would get me an eye roll, rather than the sympathy and Last Rites that were clearly called for.
So now I declare: "My love, I have contracted The Widow Maker." She then fetches the priest. At least, I think she's gone for the priest. She's been gone a long while...