Men, women and pink champagne

The Lady says that men are rather limited when it comes to talking about personal stuff. Now, this is obviously stating the obvious; but she elaborates on lines that I think are rather interesting.

Her take goes like this; women talk (and blog) about their sex lives, men don't; women talk about their boyfriends being wankers, men allude to mating problems in clouds of clumsy existential whimsy; women have real conversations with their best mates, men hum, haw, consider confiding, and then decide it's not bleeding worth it, let's just have a drink and talk football (or cricket). This means that when they are going through an exit event, like a separation, death or divorce, a woman has a well-oiled support system that's just waiting to be turned on. The man, on the other hand, has this best mate who just can't wait to tell him about what Federer did to Roddick last Saturday. Especially since Federer's been doing the same thing to Roddick every Saturday for the past few years. And that's why women live much longer, at least in the so-called developed world.

As you may have guessed, I've been tagged. By the redoubtable Sac aka the Laughing Buddha Biker. Hence, all this clumsy existential whimsy.

I vaguely knew of tags as some kind of blogger memic-compulsive behaviour, which will never happen to you, and if it did, you intend to adroitly sidestep. But sidestepping is well nigh impossible when you have grown to genuinely like the people you have virtual conversations with, so here goes.

I am patient, and I think it sort of defines me, all things considered.

I like my space. I like yours, too. This means that I am hopelessly un-curious about other people's personal lives.

I have been clinically depressed. Since I didn't have the time for therapy, I just took an antidepressant and got on with my life. This turned out to be extremely effective and efficient. I understand it's not that simple for many people who become depressed, but that just makes it an even more urgent topic. Depression will account for the second largest cause of morbidity and global economic burden by 2010. The more all of us talk about it, the better. And the quicker it's dealt with, the quicker you can move on with your life. Besides, 3 out of 10 people will become clinically depressed at some point of time in their lives. So, it's all happening. And it might be happening around you. So do keep an eye out. And cultivate plenty of confiding relationships. This is a bit like having low grade therapy. It's proven to be effective.

I caught an unpleasant infectious disease from a patient a long time ago. I'd love to say that I fought it, but I didn't. I sorta let it wash over me, while I watched television, got fussed over, and puked my guts out. It took the medics 6 months to figure out what was wrong, while feeding me steroids that granted it unlimited access to hitherto virgin parts of my body. By this time, even I'd begun to think I had HIV or cancer or both(everyone else appeared to have been thinking the same thing for some time). This freaked me out and I had a panic attack. Panic attacks aren't much fun, especially when you're hooked on to heart monitors in a CCU. At which point a woman I'd met at a party decided to scan me somewhere I wasn't supposed to be scanned. And promptly found out what was going on. This shows that you should always speak to women at parties. And strip whenever they tell you to. And that when it comes to life and death situations, women always know better. Never mind that the consultant treating me was a woman. Jokes apart, the stigma these sort of things evoke can often come from the unlikeliest quarters. It wasn't pleasant.

I once took a swing at a cop. Inside a Police Station. This, obviously, wasn't a great career move. Fortunately, it didn't connect. The cop was crooked, and had just stolen my motorcycle. That night ended with a bunch of now dignified medics being chased down an Indian street by an armed mob of parking attendants. We were on bikes, so we got away. And no, I wasn't charged because the Circle Inspector was very nice. I was 18, so I guess it was okay.

I paint, after a fashion. I think it's pretty mediocre, but a doctor who paints commands a certain Exotic Quotient, and so some people let me exhibit every year. Suckers. Actually, I am pathetically grateful for this. This year it's next week. And all I've done is base coats.

Which brings us to the pink champagne. I was at the Dorchester the other day, courtesy the gang, filling that glaring gap in my cv which said 'haven't had high tea at the Dorchester'. All the girls were having pink champagne. I hesitated; they rolled their eyes, which left me with no option but to go for it. And hey, it was nice. So there you go, I just looove pink champagne at teatime, dahling! Especially on a hot summer day....... So much for male stereotypes.

I don't have too many people to tag, I'm afraid; N doesn't have a blog, Nikita's busy, Hanni's quit, Vij doesn't like tags, Sreekumar's on a bloggatical. Which leaves Anu and Lg. Do the tag if you have the time and the inclination; otherwise, absolutely no problem. It's definitely a free country.

P.S. Everything I've said here is true. Especially the bits that I made up. Other versions of these stories are known to exist, but mine has the virtue of making me look a lot cooler.