“I have 301 Facebook friends”
“I have had 84 girlfriends…”
“I have had nine and a half relationships…”
Men are full of useless information. They will remember the exact configuration of their first laptop/computer/mobile phone or the exact number of games they won at pool five weeks ago, and the exact sequence of moves that led to it.
Or the exact number of CDs or games they had in their collection until MPs made such discussions obsolete. Or how many Raymond Chandlers they have read and how many Wodehouse novels were set in Blandings and what was Harry Potter’s favourite drink (as if I care).
They will also remember how many people they have beaten up and what was the exact anatomical location of the bruise they had so dextereously planted on the concerned bodies and what time of night it was and how many people were on the street.
Or at what age did they lose their you-know-what and what age did they have their first crush and what age did they buy their Nintendo or smoke their first joint.
Or how many pending friend requests they have on Facebook or how many friends do they actually have on Facebook and how many times have they been poked in the last hour or how many applications have they added.
Or what does an Away jersey mean and exactly what day and hour the next Man U match is on.
Or how many strands of white hair inhabit their beard and what was the age when they found their first strand of white hair.
Or how much beer can they drink in one go or how many times have they duped the cops while under the influence or how many exams they never took, but passed anyway. Or how many times they outwitted their parents, teachers, wardens and pretty much anyone that was the voice of authority when they were growing up.
It’s not that you asked for the aforementioned information, or any pointed question thereof that led to its dispensing. It is not that you are even remotely interested in the subject or have proffered an equivalent bit of information from a remotely connected subject or object on your part. But there, it’s yours to have anyway, take it or leave it.
But ask them what was their first memory of anger or jealousy or feeling lost, and they don’t have a clue. Ask them when was the last time they cleaned their ceiling fan or DVD player and they look at you in perplexity. Ask them if they remember their best friends’s birthday, and they stare at you sheepishly.