I recently got out of a relationship. That’s never an easy thing. In addition, Hallmark decided to make a feel-good holiday movie about it. Some of you may have seen it — “The Christmas Farmer,” it was called, referring to the guy my ex, Debbie, is apparently engaged to now.
It is what it is, but I don’t feel like I was fairly represented in the movie. I get it: I’m a New York City corporate attorney courting the small-town girl, but I thought she wanted to be a part of this world.
The first time I met Debbie at the Harvard Club, it was a talk on economics she was covering for the Village Voice. There was a spark. She was beautiful in this amazingly plain way. She was like the girl you venture into the Western frontier with. But she was so hooked into Gotham. I took the city for granted as the only place any reasonable person would want to live. To her, it was an amusement park.
I had no idea that Debbie wanted a family and had a deep desire to be a mother based on her own mother dying in a car accident when she was seven years old. When I asked her what her greatest ambition was, she said, “To be a member of SoHo House and blow a line off of Kate Moss’s foot.” That didn’t scream, “Let’s register for preschool” to me.
It’s only been a week, but, you know, I’m not angry about any of this. In fairness, I was late. I was supposed to be there on Christmas Eve for whatever that thing they do in the town square is. But listen, when Goldman Sachs calls and says, we need to do something now or the Dow is gonna lose 500 points, that trumps the freaking Mistletoe Festival in Nobody Cares, Iowa.
So I get there Christmas morning, having used like half a million airline miles to fly first class so I’d be refreshed, and lo and behold she and Scott, the football star who blew out his knee and lost his ride but was also friends with people in the band, and had a secret crush on Debbie since they were in the band together, and her real passion is music, are the Queen and King of the Christmas thing that happens in the town square.
So I grabbed the next flight — also first class because, come on — and headed back to Gotham. So as the plane is landing I call Topher, and he’s like “What’s up?” I tell him the story, and he’s like, “Dude, no? Seriously? We’re at Haven, come right now.” So I did. I got a Task Rabbit to take my luggage to my doorman and went directly to Haven.
Am I proud of my behavior that night, and in the ensuing days, as Debbie and Scott sipped cocoa in front of the fireplace? That’s a complicated question. I feel like Kant’s categorical imperative is on my side, but Durkheim isn’t? I don’t know. What I can say is that Baby Yoda could have skied down the mountain of cocaine I was treated to. Life has never felt so real.
A prominent Bolivian radio personality was in attendance, and this was a kind of pure coke that most Americans have no idea even exists. Scott certainly doesn’t, although Debbie does. No jitters. Just pure personality enhancement. All of us were the greatest human beings who ever existed, and we congratulated each other for being that.
The next morning, I found myself on a private jet with Elon Musk and Salman Rushdie apparently heading to Warsaw, which is like, one of my favorite cities. My Twitter and Facebook feeds were blowing up with the whole Hallmark thing. Some messages were supportive, more mocking me losing Debbie. But Debbie isn’t a poker chip, she’s a person. She needs to be with who she wants to be with.
Don’t feel bad for me this Christmas. All of this a great learning experience, and I’m living my best life. I wish Debbie and Scott all the best. In retrospect, it was never going to work out between us. Let’s go get the future.
