In a city as large as Manhattan, it shouldn’t just be possible, it should be expected, that you won’t run into persnickety ex boyfriends and ex lovers. You do your part, avoiding all of “your” restaurants, “your” bars—you even stay on your own side of the park. When it happens, you are without makeup, not at your worst, but not at your best. You go home and race to the mirror, just as you are. Did I look okay? You tell your friends. Okay, it was an unexpected hiccup; you go on. These things happen, life isn’t fair, you know the drill.

It’s a bit different when your ex contacts you. An unexpected phone call or email—Boom. You’ve got drama. One always hopes that her ex will come crawling back, not because she wants him; just so she can say it. The low chant of “I was an idiot” can be heard on Sunday evenings throughout New York just as the Sunday Blues settle in. I’ve got too many idiots, too many ex-boyfriends who didn’t realize a good thing until it was gone.