Surviving the Man Cold – A Completely Non-Comprehensive Guide

I have a confession to make, y’all. If we’re being completely honest, I probably have several dozen confessions to make, but there’s a time and place for all that. Today, my dirty dirty confession is that I suffer from the dreaded Man Cold. I know what you’re thinking…Have I been wrong this whole time? Did I misread something somewhere? Does The Best Life have a PENIS???


Fear not, gentle readers, you haven’t been misled. I am, indeed, the proud owner of a glorious vagina. But somehow, somewhere along the way, my body decided that when it comes to fighting off a cold virus, I have The Best Life equivalent of a teeny tiny little ballsack full of pouty drama.

man cold

This pretty much sums it up. Except my legs don’t get this hairy ever because I’m not fucking disgusting.
(photo from

I start off strong…truly, I do. When the coughing and sneezing and runny nose hit, I scoff at the weaklings around me and continue on with my workouts. “I’ll sweat it out,” I think, “no problem-o!” I double up on my already considerable vodka consumption, laughing that no virus on earth could withstand the sterilizing properties of my blood. I got this, bitches. Until I don’t. And when I don’t got this, I really fucking don’t got this. Within hours of “the change”, I go from COLD FIGHTING MACHINE to WHIMPERING PILE OF KLEENEX WHO JUST WANTS TO DIE.

And that’s where I’ve been all week, in case you’ve missed me. I have been a sad, achy, narcoleptic cry baby. Husbandio deserves a Congressional Medal of Honor and the Order of Canada for putting up with my pouty bullshit. But you guuuuuuuuuuys…I’m hot and I’m cold and my skin hurts and my hair hurts and I can’t breathe and I can’t keep my eyes open and who the FUCK put this giant gong in my brain and WHEN WILL THE PAIN STOP???

The title promises you a survival guide, and a survival guide you shall have! So what do you need to make it through a bout of The Man Cold?  Ready? READY? Here we go:

  1. Marry Husbandio. This is the most important thing you can do. He will quietly put glasses of water on the nightstand while you’re comatose, and he will wrangle the small noisy animals who live in your home.  He’ll quietly throw some backhanded comments in your face about how you always make fun of him when he’s sick, but he’s so lovely that he never goes that one step further to tell you that you are a WAY BIGGER PUSSY.  And he’s nice to look at.
  2. Don’t eat anything. Food will just make you nauseous and extra pouty, so why not lose a few pounds while you’re sleeping? SILVER LINING, kittens.
  3. Hydrate. This is where I went wrong this week. I was so grumpy and nauseous that I decided to take a break from alcohol and I swear it’s dragging this hell out for even longer than necessary. So do a shot or two of vodka every hour on the hour and then call me in the morning. If you remember.
  4. STAY. HOME. This one is serious. Nobody wants to listen to you bitching and moaning about how sick you are. Go home and get your sweet ass to bed. EVERYONE will be happier.

Since I spent all week on my deathbed, I haven’t had a chance to talk to any of y’all. How ARE you? You look radiant! Is that a new top? If you’re not busy later, you should pop in for a glass of champagne…hydrate, hydrate, hydrate!