OK, We're Wimps!

Recently, I was reminded of a cold, hard fact of life; women get some kind of depraved pleasure when men endure pain and suffering.

Perhaps part of the reason for this is the difference in the way women and men shoulder their infirmities. When sick, a woman goes about her daily tasks quietly bearing her afflictions, never letting on she’s feeling the least bit of discomfort. Former Mrs. Bagley, for instance, could be in the throws of tetanus, yet she’d scurry about the house, vacuuming, wiping down walls, washing windows, etc, as she whistled some light-hearted, high-stepping tune, all while her muscles contorting and contracting from the wretched disease.

When I, on the other hand, suffer some great physical ailment (something excruciatingly painful like, say, a hangnail), I’ll constantly, and very loudly, whine and moan, letting the whole world in on my misfortune. I’ll also insist all living things in the universe stop what they’re doing and wait with bated breath to see if I’ll survive such a torturous ordeal.

But there are other reasons women feel such warped amusement when men suffer unbearable pain, and one of those reasons is childbirth. Let’s face it, once a woman gives birth, that experience serves as an all-time barometer of pain. No injury, no suffering, no illness a man might endure will even draw close to what a woman experiences during childbirth.

Pity, forget about it, boys. You can be hit on the interstate by a semi-truck doing 80 mph, and if you miraculously survive all you’ll hear from the ladies is “You think that hurts you ought to have to squirt 10 pounds of human flesh out of you. That’s when you’ll know what pain is!”

I remember a few years back when I passed a kidney stone. Instead of sympathy from my female co-workers I received sadistic smiles and saw a wicked glee in their eyes as I described the agonizing, painful experience.

You see, women understand that passing a kidney stone is the closest a man can get to experience the pains of childbirth, and women take great sadistic joy in hearing us describe our excruciating ordeal. Though my female co-workers didn’t say it, I could tell by the expression on their faces what they were thinking; “You ought to squirt 10 pounds of human flesh out of you. Then you’ll know what pain is.” I finally just shut up about it and kept the telling of my story to just the men. Hey, I’d endured enough, why pile humiliation on top of everything else?

Yes, it’s a historical fact, men. Throughout time we’ve never received, nor will we ever receive, empathy from the ladies when it comes to pain and suffering. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t understand it and . . . OUCH! I’d better end this now. My pinkies are sore and are blistered from all of this typing.

Ohhhhh the pain is unbearable. We’re out of aspirin! Oh no, how am I supposed to endure this excruciating agony without something for the pain?

A Place Reserved in Heaven

Like a lot of people, I firmly believe that in the final analysis of life how we act here on earth counts for something. It’s up to us to earn a place in the next life with “the Man upstairs.” But I also think there are a certain number of people who should, to borrow an expression from the sports world, have an automatic birth into Heaven.

The inventor of the T.V. remote control is one of the first people who I think deserves an automatic birth into Heaven. Let’s face it; if there was a Lazy Man’s Hall of Fame you know there’d be a life-size statue of that guy welcoming all visitors into the building. Shoot, some people, mostly men who become power wielding tyrants when a remote is placed in their domineering little hands, would even pay homage to the statue, laying flowers at its feet and mumbling some whiny chant for hours on end.

Right along side of the inventor of the remote control there should be an automatic birth to Heaven for the creator of the mute button on that remote. When channel surfing only provides a smorgasbord of annoying commercials to choose from, we have the option of just muting the “idiot box,” as my momma used to call it. The ability to “stick it” to those irritating advertisements by muting them is an intoxicating power to be sure.

At the very least, the person who invented the mute button should be sainted. Ah yes, Saint Mute. Hey, anyone raising teenagers would frequently pray to him, requesting a blessing of silence.

One last person that I’d nominate for an automatic birth to Heaven is the kind lady at the Hillbilly Moccasins store in downtown Branson, Missouri. When I was 53 cents short of the cost for resoling my boots (yes, on occasion I’ve been known to wear cowboy boots) she let me leave the store with my footwear, trusting me to bring her that 53 cents the following day.

Now, I’m an honest person. I would’ve never stiffed her, but she didn’t know that. Yet, unlike a lot of us, her outlook on humanity hasn't become cynical. She was willing to take the risk that I’d keep my word and bring the money later.

To say this was a surprise and very inspiring would be an understatement. It renewed in me a little faith that not all of humanity has become hard hearted, that there are still a few people in the world who are kind and decent folks, willing to give others the chance to show that they too are of the same caliber.

Unfortunately, this type of experience is becoming a rare thing. Heck, not long ago, before I started using a debit card, I wrote a check for fuel at a gas station and darn near had to give my eldest son as collateral for them to accept it, and I was a regular customer who’d never bounced a check on them!

So, to the lady at Hillbilly Moccasins and others like her, I salute you. And when your automatic birth to Heaven comes, put in a good word for me with the Man in charge, won’t you?