Fake is the new real

By Donna Debs

When I got married, my husband gave me a $5 fake engagement ring, knowing growing up in a jeweler’s family, I related sparkly gems to issues better left on a therapist’s couch. Too much information. In fact, on our first Valentine’s Day, Romeo bought me fake flowers. He was biding his time at an airport, obviously sick of nut mixes and magazines. A dozen plastic roses stuck their stiff heads out of a cheesy gift shop and somehow, maybe a belief that plastic lasts forever while real is fleeting — or he was suffering from delusional jet lag — he caved in.

We threw them in the trash quicker than you can say yes to a first class upgrade.

Today fake has a whole new connotation.

In Washington it’s a mantra, if you like that sort of thing. Yet in general, fake has attained a more acceptable panache in some circles — an authentic fakeness perhaps.

At home, we have a music fake book to easily learn songs; I have a faux leather jacket, an oilcloth with sleeves; I eat vegan seitan, fake meat. And let’s not get started on Fakebook, uh, Facebook.

On the other side — real is headaches, bad customer service, stuck zippers, peeling nail polish, cars that conk out as soon as you drive away from the mechanic.

Real can be a fake out too.

Yet we’re always looking for real. You hear it all the time: I want a real relationship, I want to find my real self, I want the real truth — all set-ups for future fakeries? Inundated with fake

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