Not that it's much of a stretch, mind you; very few of us have reached a level of maturity greater than that of a 13-year-old.

Earlier this week, I spent an entire evening doubled over and inspecting my toilet bowl, thanks to some sort of food-borne illness. I'll spare you the gruesome details, but, in short, I was very unhappy.

Partially, my unhappiness came from the fact that being sick as an adult isn't nearly as fun as when I was a child. As a young boy, being sick meant getting to miss school and hang out with my mom or dad for the day, and, if I played my cards right, I would get a cherry Slurpee out of the deal. Being sick was cool.

Jump forward a few decades and there I was, alone, sans cherry Slurpee, on a cold bathroom floor, hugging the toilet at 2 a.m. and not feeling very cool at all.

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At some point, I realized that it was likely all my coughing and gagging would wake my wife, who has been extraordinarily tired these past few weeks due to earning her master's degree. Poor thing, she needs her sleep.

"Rachel!" I yelped from the bathroom floor. "Help!"

I repeated my plea a few more times, until I heard her fall out of bed, stumble into the hall and slump against the bathroom door.

RACHEL: "What's wrong?"
ME: "I'm sick. Help."
RACHEL: "What do you want me to do?"
ME: "Make it better. I'm sick."
RACHEL: "It's probably just something you ate. You just have to tough it out, I think."
ME: "Make it better."
RACHEL: "Do you want your Pooh blanket?"

She was talking about an old child's bed sheet depicting Winnie the Pooh and Piglet dancing around in the sun. Buried somewhere in the closet, it has just sort of traveled along with us over the years.

What would I want with some stupid old bed sheet? I'm an adult. I'm old enough to run for Congress. I'm a man. I play rugby. What a dumb question -- do I want the Pooh blanket?

"Yes!" I cried out.

Instantly, the Pooh blanket was produced -- Rachel must have been anticipating my answer -- and I wrapped myself in it.

(I almost always wear my Pooh blanket when I'm sick. As I write this, it is still draped over my shoulders, making me look like some sort of confused Bedouin. But Pooh and Piglet look so happy -- just looking at them makes me happy. How can I not wear it around? When I look at the two of them, I find myself muttering in a jolly English accent: "Oh, they're the best of friends.")

Then my wife put her hand on my back and pushed her fingers through my hair, and I started to feel better. I love that she can do that.

She had done the same just a day earlier, as we were driving back to St. Paul after my rugby team had suffered yet another defeat -- this time at the hands of Des Moines RFC. I could be blamed for at least 14 of the points scored against us, and my pride hurt just as much as my back. I was tired, angry, upset, frustrated, in pain and faced with two more hours of driving when my wife simply placed her hand on my knee -- that's it. And I felt all the bad feeling just disappear.

Rachel is amazing in that way. And that, in a tiny capsule, is what makes marriage so great.

People spend so much time and energy and money searching and searching and searching for that someone who they can share love with, and it can really get to be old. It can really start to feel as if the search is a waste of time.

Then one day, it's 2 a.m., you're red-faced and crumpled on the bathroom floor and wrapped in a child's bed sheet and someone runs their fingers through your hair, and you realize (again) that it was all worth it.

It's even better than a cherry Slurpee.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.