My commitment to Sex and The City endured longer than my marriage.
So when my imaginary boyfriend, Jay-Z (did you see him on Oprah? He giggles. The Hova giggles. Mad love, baby) raps,
Only time we don’t speak is during “Sex and the City”
She gets Carrie fever, but soon as the show is over
She’s right back to being my soldier
I think, now that’s a wise man.
That was how it when down in my house, too. My love, I’m here for you, any time, except Saturdays at nine. Then you must fuck right off. Quietly.
I’m not married any more. I went to Sex and The City 2.
I’m going to straight up admit it: I did not love the first movie.
And the second one was worse.
Here’s what I LOVE about the series: the female archetypes, the friendship, the social relevance, the working through the same romantic and career conundrums that the rest of us non-Laboutin wearers do, too.
(oh, those red soles. One day, baby, one day)
I relate to every single character.
Sometimes I’m Carrie: eternal romantic; writing and making a career at writing through my confusion at how what I think ought to happen and real life don’t line up; fascinated by all things men; shoes.
(The Facebook quiz: Which Sex and the City Character are You? confirms that I am Carrie.)
Sometimes I’m Miranda (one of my guy friends says I’m Miranda): fiercely ambitious and fragile. (In the first seasons of SATC, Patricia Field dressed her in colours that look like “a bruise”.)
Sometimes I’m Samantha: a lot of the time, I’m Samantha. But then I go all Charlotte and cry about it the next day. Or, like Carrie, I write about it the next day.
(Often, I do both.)
Sometimes I’m Charlotte: oh yeah, I’m Charlotte. She named her dog Elizabeth Taylor. She wears pin-up, vintage style clothes. She believes in the fairy tale. She wants to be married and have babies. I am Charlotte.
So that’s the appeal. I know all of these characters, intimately. I see them in my friends. I see them in myself.
So that’s why a Big Feminist Writer writes about Sex and the City and takes it seriously even though I’m sure she knew she’d be crucified for it.
Sex and the City is a window into The Lives of Women.
The series just makes it sexier. The four characters – female archetypes, I argue – do all the same things “ordinary” women do, they just do it in New York (sigh), in terrific and sometimes terrifying clothing (sigh), in much better clubs and restaurants with way better looking people (sigh), and with way more witty banter (orgasm).
But the most compelling parts of the series – the friendship, the social relevance – are dialled down in the movie, while the fashion and the glamour and the Not Your Life, Sucka are amped way up.
And then there’s the caricatured exotic locale and Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte in burqas.
I hate that stuff.
One scene made the whole movie worthwhile.
Miranda and Charlotte are having a martini or six. Miranda tells Charlotte – and I’m paraphrasing wildly – “we’re 6,700 miles from home. We’re both mothers. You can tell me the things you’re don’t think you can say.”
“As much as I love Brady…and I do…being a mother is not enough. I miss my job.”
And Charlotte lets it out. All she ever wanted was to have children, and now that she has them, she loves them, and they drive her crazy. The baby cries All. The. Time. Sometimes she puts her in another room and walks away, and what kind of mother is that?
There’s more. Lots more. Lots more real. More confessions, more martinis, more tears, more life.
Because that’s the truth about being a parent: it is a joy and a nightmare, a privilege and a burden, a divine calling and a life sentence. Ambivalence, thy name is mother.
Charlotte sobs, “And I have full-time help! How do other women do it?”
Miranda says, grimly, “I have no fucking idea. Here’s to them.”
And they drink.
And those are my girls, saluting their girls. Us. All of us.