The Madness Factor

I spent the weekend hanging out with a bunch of guys.

Nothing opens a gal's eyes to the innerworkings of the male mind more than being a fly on the wall when a group of guys who haven't seen each other in a few years all descend upon one house, for one weekend, and each of them has girlfriend issues.

It's fascinating, enlightening, and frightening, all at the same time.

Now, I hang out with guys pretty well. Chalk it up to spending 4 years in the military, then 5 years in a male-dominated college curriculum, followed by 10 years in a profession filled with toolbelts and powertools. 90% of my colleagues are male. I've learned how to let the crudeness slide by, and to seize every opportunity to (insert Brit accent) 'take the piss' out of 'em. (Oh yeah, and I'm a strong-headed woman with a sharp wit who's not afraid to use it. Let's not forget that.)

Two 30-something east-coast bachelors staying at my boyfriend's place. One who is in the throws of an on-again/off-again relationship with a woman 13 years his junior. The other who has just transitioned a six-month long platonic relationship into something with romantic ardor. Both women are coming to a gathering on Monday evening, but until then, the guys are on their own.

Over the course of the weekend, we meet some of their business associates for drinks, hang out in S's backyard over beer and BBQ, head up to visit age-old friends of theirs and their various toddlers, and I hear story after story of their dating antics.

And their dating idioms, including - The Madness Factor.

This involves a general assessment (low, medium, high) of how mad their newest love interest is, which translates into how insane these women are going to drive them.

Upon hearing this, I shot S a hard sideways look, to which he immediately stated that he had proclaimed me "very low" on TMF scale. Hmmm.

And I heard it all: women who've cajoled them into taking swing dance lessons, giving up playing drums, buying $180 jeans. Women who've loved them, loathed them, saddened them and scorned them. Women who've ripped their hearts out, or come close to ripping their eyes out. Women who drove them to drink.

In all of these tales, they were the little cork boats, tossed about by the tumultuous waves of these 'mad' women.

I sipped my wine, nodded in sympathy, and gave my assessment of these otherwise liberal-minded, pointedly career-oriented, perplexingly perpetually-frustrated bachelors: Their Madness Factor? Sky-frickin'-high.