The More I Love You, The More I Want You

To be secure in one's manhood means being able to pour out one's emotions at the drop of a hat and willing to roll up one's sleeves in a bar fight.  Or neither.  One need not conform to a stereotype.

So it was when my loved one wanted to cry her heart out, in pain and discomfort, feeling like a porcupine whose needles were being pulled out in ones and bunches, stuck back in and pulled out again.

What must a man do to placate his wife?

Feeling sorry or saying you're sorry is less than enough.  Sympathy is out of the question.

A private party for two, perhaps?  No, not that kind, sir and madam - you can see she would not be in the mood.

What does it take?

A magician's sleight of hand?

A distraction, to be sure.

There, on the bedside table, is the solution (and not the seven-percent kind, Watson).

A parade in one's bed, then marching in six-inch circles, all while swapping out paper-and-plastic masks made from facial tissue and latex gloves.

Look, she is a tiger with big whiskers!


A walrus with a probing proboscis!

H. Ross Perot and his big ears!  (make the mask's face a little thinner and it looks like Obama...hmm...we haven't see Perot lately...do you smell a conspiracy similar to the Rod Stewart/Kim Carnes twin theory?)

Oprah's changing body sizes (had to put the gloves under the mask and attach the IV pump line to the glove fingers to get that effect)!

Now, she is laughing and carrying on like the pain is Zen'd out of the way, no future expectation of prickliness or bloodletting.

Next on the agenda: sneaking in a battery-powered bicycle motor to attach to the spokes of a wheelchair and pop some wheelies down a back hallway away from the watchful eyes of the nurses' station!  Maybe later, sticking a piece of ice between her teeth just in time for the hourly body temperature reading, and, if we're really motivated, slipping a fake arm into her hospital gown for the night nurse to try to get a BP reading in the semidarkness.

Love is never having to say sorry to the folks on whom you and your loved one pull practical jokes.  There's a hidden patient version of Patch Adams in every one of us, despite prognoses that make no sense.  Why take a grave attitude to the grave?  Life is the leading cause of death.  Mightaswell attach rocket motors underneath the whoopee cushion and enjoy the ride!