I don’t get sick. I never get sick. Of course,that’s what all of us say when we actually do get sick.

And in fact, it’s what I’m saying now, while I’m sick, because, really, I never get sick except for right now and the time last fall when I had to go to the emergency room and the time in the spring when I infected the university graduating class and the other time when I set the Olympic record (senior division) for most consecutive sneezes.

Since I never get sick, when I do get sick, like many men, I simply ignore it and refuse to acknowledge its presence in the room or even text it.

When I start sneezing, I tell my wife it must be allergies. I am, as a matter of fact, allergic to several kinds of pollen, cat fur, animal dander, instant polenta, juices that advertise that they are gluten-free, people who use the word hopefully the wrong way, joking television meteorologists and doing dishes on Tuesday nights.

When I start coughing, I tell my wife that it just must be something that got caught in my throat, like a baseball, and I’ll be fine as long as spring training starts soon.

If I have a fever, I tell my wife that the house must be too warm, I should never wear flannel underwear and we shouldn’t be living in Florida even if we are not living in Florida.

Ultimately, though, I reluctantly acknowledge that I probably have a cold. (This has happened even though I know I have taken reasonable precautions, such as frequent hand-washing, waving a garlicked chicken around my head and making fun of all those other people who have gotten sick before me.)

I refuse, however, to acknowledge that I need to do something about it.

I continue life as before, although with much more complaining. I go out in the freezing cold and the torrential rain, in my flannels, to see if the mail has arrived, even though it’s only 9 o’clock in the morning and it’s Sunday.

My wife wants me to go to the doctor. I point out that I’m too sick to go. And, I add, the only thing the doctor’s office is going to do is force me to read old US magazine Kardashian stories in the waiting room and then confirm that yes, indeed, I have a cold and that with treatment, it should take a week to get better but without treatment it would take around seven days.

This goes on for a couple of weeks. I get better, I get worse, I get many people annoyed at me and I run out of tissues.

I finally decide I’ll go to the doctor. By the time I get an appointment and go, of course, I’m not sick anymore. I told you, I never get sick.