You Can’t Fake The Funk, Or Can You? So, my girlfriend is going...

You Can’t Fake The Funk, Or Can You?

So, my girlfriend is going through a breakup… Eek! I hate breakups, but realistically who doesn’t? The other night, as I lay curled in bed about to finish my book I received a hysterical phone call from my friend, Blake, that the world (or hers) had just come to an end… Her thirty four year old boyfriend of four years dumped her. During their sushi dinner in the East Village, somewhere between noshing on edamames and passing the soy sauce he laid it on her… While looking for creative inspiration (being that he’s a struggling writer) he decided to take the train to Brooklyn where he stumbled upon a random bar (in the middle of the day) and proceeded to drink his sorrows away over complaints about his life to the blonde bartender (Blake is a brunette) whom he staggered home with (after her shift) and after several (which he actually specified) love-making sessions and discussions (and I’m sure tears because this jerk is more of a woman than Blake herself) about the importance of life, he is officially in love (which is a complete joke) with a twenty two year old woman (another joke) who makes him feel complete (or simply just doesn’t care what he does with his life). He then continued, in detail, to discuss how beautiful and special this “woman” was to him… ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! (Who is this guy and what is his damage?!)

Personally, I probably would’ve thrown my sake in his face and turned over a table (being that dramatics are more my style), but not my awesome friend Blake. Nope, instead she sat through dinner, fully composed without shedding a tear, and once the bill came excused herself to the ladies room, but instead dipped out the back and sent him a text saying “being that you’ve decided to leave me for another woman, I’ve decided to leave you with the bill”. The beauty of that is every time they’ve gone out Blake has always foot the bill (and by “every time” I’m referring to every single time throughout their four year romance, with the exception of their first THREE dates).

Truth be told, I wasn’t necessarily surprised about the split- I just assumed Blake would be the bearer of bad news, not this good-for-nothing. Seriously, let’s just tally up the scorecard here… Blake is a beautiful (seriously, she even gives me a run for my money), tall (5’9 to be exact), educated (studied at Dartmouth with a masters from NYU), successful (an orthodontist who has partnered with Colgate to create a new type of flossing contraption) woman… Ooh and did I mention that she is ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS?! Seriously, even I (who has an obnoxious amount of clothes) sometimes find myself sifting through her amazing array of designer duds in search of something to don on a Saturday night. So yeah, don’t let the orthodontist bit fool you- this chick is pretty hip (hence why we’re friends)!

Anyway, after listening to her weep over the phone- and not even over the boy (yes you read correctly, boy)- but more questioning whether blondes have more fun and if her age should be a concern, I decided being freshly single (minutes to be exact) we should probably meet and discuss all of this over a cocktail. We both agreed it was a genius idea and to meet at Le Bain for much needed girl talk. Being that I only had minutes to dress, I threw on a simple dress and figured fabulous accessories would pack the punch. (You can never go wrong with Suzanna Dai’s Windsor Drop Earrings and Medusa Necklace!)

Before I knew it, I was out the door and in a cab heading to a swank spot where my freshly single gal could mingle. By the time I got there Blake was seated on a sofa with a dirty martini waiting for me (she’s such a good friend) and the conversation started- should she dye or cut her hair (only if she really wanted to change her look), go to Brooklyn to beat up the child that stole her child (which we both agreed was a complete waste of good energy, but instead should just join my bikram yoga class), get Botox (unnecessary as she didn’t have a single premature wrinkle), join a dating website (ehh, not yet), pickup the habit of smoking cigarettes (for the sole purpose of asking men for a light outside of bars- which once again we both agreed probably wasn’t the best idea), take a vacation (yes definitely, someplace tropical- with me in toe), change the locks on her doors (absolutely, as the last thing she needs is this sad excuse for a man creeping in late at night smelling of yesterdays sins- being one step ahead, she had already informed her doorman not to let him up to her apartment), and finally take the cute doctor down the hall from her apartment up on his offer for dinner (umm, YES DEFINITELY). 

Two dirty martinis and three cosmopolitans (that being her poison of choice) later, Blake felt better. She opted to walk me to my apartment after, but during our walk figured some greasy Chinese food would definitely cure any drunken loneliness she may feel once she got home (especially since lethargy was always the best remedy when attempting to catch some Z’s, plus we both had a 10AM bikram yoga class to attend the next day so there would be no chance of feeling bad about this evening’s consumption). And off we were- in a cab heading to my favorite Chinese restaurant in the heart of China Town, Wo Hop, where we continued our gab session about loves lost and laughed over the legitimacy of love between New York’s struggling writer and Brooklyn’s bartender over pork fried rice and lo mein.

And this is why I love New York… Not only can you always find a place to eat and drink (and a ride to get anywhere you want to go), but also because within a city built on “fake-it-till-you-make-its” it’s also easy to not only fake the funk, but also get over it… With a little help, of course.

Love, Jessica