The Break-Up

General female opinion has us assuming that there are two main behavioural differences between men and women in the context of "the break-up". The first is that while a female might drown herself in wine or tears, a male will generally drown himself in a plethora of other women. The second: that it will take a man half the time to recover than it will take a woman.

But I read an article in Marie Claire last month that got me thinking. The author's argument was that women forget just how strong their post break-up safety net is. The minute the relationship ends, all it takes is one phone call to a friend and the dejected female will find all sorts of heartbreak-repairing paraphenalia being flung her way: Tissues, wine and Ben&Jerry's, followed by an appropriate number of verbal slurs against the "evil ex" and finally, days of analysing every element of the break-up until a hopeful conclusion is reached.

But guys have no such support. I think the example the author gave was something like this...

After watching the love of his life walk down the street and out of his world, Jon returned to the table where the guys sat waiting. He sits.
"Anna and I just broke up." He looks down at his glass. It is half-empty. Silence.
"How long were you together?" Asks a friend.
"Three years."
"Oh. Right." More silence.

And that's it. No tissues, no hugs, no 4am phone calls. Just a stab-in-the-guts reminder of how many years they had been happy.

I will never understand it. Men know that (for the most part) they are capable of intimacy, because they share it with their partners. They laugh, cry, share their deepest secrets...for heaven's sake they name their balls! So if they can share an open and honest relationship with a woman, why not with their friends?

Perhaps they don't realise the difference it makes to have someone to just talk at. Then when you've finished, to insist that (if you are the dumpee) he is an evil pr*ck who doesn't know what he's lost, and you were too good for him anyway. Or (if you were the instigator) that you did everything you possibly could to make it work and there really was no alternative. And finally, to drag you out dancing, ply you with endless rounds of tequila shots, and do them with you. This in fact might be the ultimate act of friendship: suffering the mother of all hangovers for your happiness.

I don't know. Perhaps it's seen as emasculating. All I do know is that if it wasn't for my own very strong and practiced safety net, I would still be aged 19, fossilised and clutching a bar of Cadbury's beneath a pink duvet.