I’m the typical single woman in New York City. I don’t wear heels to work because the typical woman’s job doesn’t exclusively involve gallery openings. And I know Carrie must’ve made boatloads writing her 800-word column for some newspaper nobody’s ever heard of, but I just spent my last seven dollars having a bite with my best friend who, by the way, is not available at 3 p.m. on a Wednesday to console me about some guy because she, too, has a job, and mostly when you fall for a guy and he’s going out with your best friend, it doesn’t work out, and things get really sad.