Short short story

One day, once upon a time in a faraway land, a woman was neither nagging nor whining nor even complaining a little bit. But that was a long time ago, and only for ONE day.
J.

Miss Nurture

Although I haven't found it yet, I feel certain that the Internet has a 'Nurturing Tutorial" for older stiff males like myself. Twice this week I have been accused by my better half of not caring about her unfrequent pains and aches. Yesterday she wanted to help me remove my rubberized diving booties as she was seeing me in labor, huffing and puffing on a chair outside after a fishing trip. I did tell her that this was probably not a good idea. She then pulled and tugged and slipped her grip, falling on a chair and hitting her elbow. True, I didn't rush to console and rub, not feeling her pain to be that intense, happy that she fell sitting on a helpful chair, a little upset that she hadn't heeded my advice that her help was not required, and basically wanting to give her a lesson for not listening to me, to borrow my father's parlance."

Fact is, I DO CARE, I care about accidents, about the dangers of doing things beyond one's strength, about the fact that accidents often happen when four hands work on a delicate problem that can be resolved with two hands, albeit more slowly.

But go tell that to "Miss Nurture", a true champion of bequer bobo as we say in French, capable of caring for three very furry dogs attacked by furious fleas, caring for our aging neighbors and one difficult aging customer, me. Of course there is no doubt that she deserves better under the circumstances; I should have attacked her elbow with two wet lips, have her cry on my shoulder and pat her derrière gently, mobilizing sweet words from my arid lexicon.
It's just not in me. As the dear girl said to me this morning after I failed to nurture a leg cramp, "Women are nurturers", ( i.e. "youguys are useless shits!")
I do care. Probably too much. Before I met her on a dating web site, I had put into my profile that I did not wish to meet a smoker. I just didn't see myself in the future pain of seeing a beloved wheezing partner dying from a lung disease. I had quit smoking a few years earlier and did not wish to be exposed to second hand smoke, true. My desire for sharing a healthy life plan with her was very real. She quit before we actually met, patched up and apparently happy. Things did not turn out that way.
Thirty extra pounds later, her all-smoke-and-no-exercise sister suggested that Nikki was not pleasantly plump, but positively fat. Out came the cigs from every directions. I fell back five years in my life, got to smoke again and remove a possible five years to my projected existence. Wait!, I got the maths wrong!
Anyhow, curiously at that time we were all, sister-in-law included, exercising at LA Fitness. I was beaming with tenderness to see my baby on the threadmill in her running shoes two sizes too big. I was seeing wellness and stamina come slowly back into our lives with the desire to smoke being smoked out. Plus being the coach to that collective effort gave my ego a decent kick; I felt like a true nurturer, the male version thereof..
Two years and a thousand packs of cigarette later, I still care so much that I probably spend an hour every day trying to conjure up a method to have Nicole (and myself, of course...) quit smoking and starting to exercise. Anything will do, brisk walks to the beach instead of a slow shuffle, hiking in the nearby mountains, rollerblading on the basketball courtyard just a stone throw from our house.
But sharing the goal of a healthy mind in a healthy body is verboten in this household, taboo.I need to keep my worries to myself.
It's all pretty hopeless I sometimes think, and my peculiar pain raises no sympathy from my better half, nor from her sister for that matter. "Just quit smoking and exercise...and leave us alone". Wanting to share these goals with her (or them) is my downfall. Caring for her is my challenge under these circumstances, as there are a lot of people who think that their bodies, their ethics, their health and their thoughts are a strictly private affair.

From BBC

I know one. I know this guy who would rather spend two hours removing his rubber booties and dive suit than have a fair maiden flutter about with too little strength to help and more than enough zeal to hurt herself. End of story. Now let's light a cigarette and smoke ourself silly.