In Sickness and in Health?

Her: “I’m sick, you want to come over?”

Me: “Um, no thank you…”

This conversation occurred between me and my first girlfriend and left me utterly confused.  Just 18 years old the time, I had only my upbringing as a source of social etiquette and the lesson regarding sickness was ‘stay home so you don’t get other people sick’.  So why would a woman who ostensibly cares about me invite me to her germ farm?

Clearly I was bit naive at the time and have since learned the value of a significant other’s care when under the weather. Nonetheless, I still find the rules confusing…

When Jen called from her apartment in a raspy voice I knew my role as boyfriend. I grabbed some DVD’s and hit the supermarket to stock her with the works– soups, crackers, juices, medicine. I arrived at her pad like a Santa Claus for sick people. After heating up some chicken noodle and keeping her company I decided to get going.

“You’re leaving me?” she protested.

“Um, not for good but…” I stammered.

“I’m sick.” she said, like it was fault.

Are you kidding? She wants me to spend the night? Instinctively, I tried to make it about her, “Sweetie, you’ll rest better with the bed to yourself…”

My strategy totally backfired as she shot down my theory and left me with no backup.

“I’ll rest better with you here.”

It didn’t make any sense– we only slept over one or two nights a week as it was, why do it when it won’t even be fun? What followed was a sloppily crafted argument of how it’s best for everyone if I left. By the end she was mad and actually wanted me to leave, not how I planned it.

The same issue grew more complicated when I moved in with Claudia. She’d spent the night sniffling and coughing and, with no apartment of my own, I decided I’d at least sleep better (and avoid getting sick) on the couch. I also knew this would likely not be well received so decided to get the ball rolling.

“So… I’ll sleep on the couch tonight so you can have the bed to yourself.” I said with zero conviction.

Darn, I made the same mistake as with Jen– trying to make it about her.

“No.”

What is with these women? I don’t like sharing the bed when I’m healthy so I really don’t want to be bothered when I’m sick.  Alas, they seem to have a ‘we’re in this together’ approach– a theory solidified by Dara when the tables were turned this past New Year’s Eve.

Totally down for the count with a vicious flu, I informed her I unfortunately had to cancel our plans.

“I’ll just come hang out with you then.” she countered.

It was incredibly sweet but I encouraged her to go out and do something fun with her friends.  After all, who wants to stay in with a sick person on New Year’s?  She did.

“If you’re saying you don’t want me that’s fine but otherwise I’d rather spend it with you.”

I was hardly good company but secretly loved the idea of her coming over.

“I’d love to see you.” I stated with some conviction.

“Then you will.”

It was one of the best New Year’s of my life.  We watched TV coverage from around the globe and ate plain toast.  And, while I felt terrible, for a while even forgot I was sick.  At midnight, she insisted on kissing me and shortly thereafter we fell asleep in each other’s arms.  In my bed.  And guess what, she didn’t get sick.

Dressing Up Your Man

There comes a point in every relationship– or at least in mine– when the woman will attempt to improve her man’s appearance.  Sometimes it’s subtle (“Do you like this jacket?”) and other times more overt (“I hate that shirt.”).

In fairness, there usually is room for improvement– guys generally don’t concern themselves with presentation to the extent that women do so some intervention is often warranted… and even secretly welcome.

My first such makeover occurred so smoothly I didn’t even know it happened.

“I got you a present!”  Wendy announced, bounding through the door adorned in shopping bags.  It wasn’t my birthday, or any occasion for that matter, she just “saw something I thought you’d look good in.”

The gift was a baby blue sweater and I didn’t like it.  Aside from the color, guys don’t really like sweaters– they’re itchy and make us unnecessarily warm.  When I see a man wearing a sweater I assume he’s in a relationship (sometimes I even chuckle to myself as I think of them as little nets the woman caught him in.  I have a strange imagination.).

Having been raised well, however, I smiled graciously, “That’s so thoughtful!”

“Try it on.” Wendy fired back.

Ugh, here we go. I forced it on and will never forget what happened next– her face lit up and her eyes beamed.

“Look at your shoulders!” she purred.  “Yup, the blue brings out your eyes.” she continued, as though this had been previously discussed.

She stroked my back and arms, eying me like a dessert.

“You look so handsome…”

Within a few moments the sweater, along with all our other clothes, were on the floor.

For the next five years, I purchased only blue clothing.  I wore the color like it gave me superpowers and, while the women I passed on the street managed to stay dressed, I definitely got more looks than my t-shirt ‘n cargo shorts ensemble ever did.  It was my first experience being dressed by a woman and the upside was clear.

My next intervention, unfortunately, was not as gentle. Brooke and I were only dating a few weeks when, walking through the mall, she just snapped, “You need pants.”  She said it like it had been weighing on her for weeks and she finally couldn’t contain it any more.

Confused, I half-jokingly replied, “I have pants.”

Her faced narrowed, “You need new pants.”

In a flash, our shopping trip went from searching for Spring skirts to me with a pile of pants.  I didn’t care for her approach nor anything she picked– trendy jeans, too tight khakis (do I really look like a “slim fit” guy?).  None of her choices felt like me and soon started to remind me of the last guy she dated (I never met him, just saw pictures).  I had already suspected she still held a torch for him… was she now trying to get me to dress like him?  Eventually I agreed to purchase a few things just so we could leave.  Secretly, I planned to return them the next day, which I did, and turned Brooke in shortly thereafter.

My best makeover, however, occurred purely by accident. Claudia wanted to go to a nearby French restaurant that just opened– not normally my scene but I obliged.  I dressed nicely– button down shirt, pressed slacks and those uncomfortable square shoes women like us in– but upon arriving learned I hadn’t done enough.

“In order to dine here we require that gentleman wear a blazer.” the matre de informed me.  Since I didn’t really want to be there in the first place, this only further annoyed me.  On the other hand the news was welcome– now we can leave.

I turned to my girlfriend apologetically, “Sorry, guess we’ll have to…”

“However” the matre de interrupted, “we can provide a blazer for you.”

And he retrieved a blue blazer from the closet.

Huh?  What kind of policy is that?  ‘We require you to have a blazer unless you don’t in which case we’ll give you one?’  So much for cache.

Begrudgingly, I slung the loaner on and became further annoyed– it was pretty snug.  The shoulders were tight and I couldn’t cross my arms.  What’s this, a medium? Why wouldn’t they just have a large or XL blazer so its one size fits all?  And besides, isn’t it usually the big guy who bogies the dress code?

I didn’t care to sit through a meal jammed into this thing and turned to Claudia to complain but her face changed everything– it was the same look Wendy had given me years earlier.

“Wow. You look really good in blazers.” she purred.

I decided I could tough it out.  We sat for an overpriced meal, a bit more attitude from the staff and went straight home for dessert.