I always considered myself a "Carrie."
Watching Sex and the City faithfully each week on HBO, Sarah Jessica Parker's character was the one I most identified with. Carrie Bradshaw is a columnist; I am a columnist and journalist.
She would rather spend money on a great dress or funky peep-toed pumps than on dinner. And I totally get that, as evidenced by the many pairs of shoes in my closet packed tight with clothes.
Carrie likes to ponder and enjoy life and love and romance, as do I. She isn't married, but usually she is attached. She's even petite, like moi!
So of course I am totally psyched about seeing Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha on the big screen. But alas, the Mr. and most of my guy friends do not feel the same. They've already told me I'll have to find some girlfriends to accompany me to the Muvico, or go it alone.
How foolish of them. See, Dave, guys who dismiss Sex and the City and its followers as cotton candy fluff and vapid materialism are missing the point.
Yes, fashion and cosmos play a big part in the plot. But that's like saying a woman is nothing more than the little black designer dress hugging her frame.
Watch Sex and the City carefully, gentlemen, and you'll learn a thing or two about what we look for in our friendships, in our careers, in our love lives and in ourselves.
And if you come watch the movie with us, maybe we'll let you buy us a cosmo afterward while we discuss it.
And who knows what that could lead to?
Funny, I had pegged you for a Samantha trapped in Charlotte's persona.
Honestly, I'm not sure which of the four girls I'd date. Each has something particularly irritating about them. Carrie is a smoker and a drama queen. Miranda is simply plain, unattractive and always acted as if she wanted to wear men's underwear. Ms. York was so prissy I'm guessing she had sex the Puritan way — through a hole in the sheets. And Samantha … well, let's just say she's not girlfriend material, if you know what I mean.
But if pressed to pick one, I guess it would be Carrie.
I always fancied myself to be of the Aidan mold, although my ex thought that was hysterical. "You're nothing like Aidan!" she'd say, with the most contemptuous voice. Ouch!
I'll catch a lot of flak from my boys for this, but I don't care. I'm a huge fan of the show and just last week told my female friends I was looking forward to the premiere. Wouldn't you know, one had to tell my best friend, who, in turn, claimed he'd disown me if I admitted that in public.
While you daydream about you and Carrie being twinsies, I'll just say the show was good and bad. The writing was spectacular, the content was always apropos and the allure of Manhattan always made a great backdrop, almost like a character in itself.
On the down side, the male characters (Trey, Harry, Steve, Aleksandr) were dweebs. If that's the male dating pool to pick from in NYC, I feel bad for those girls.
But the worst part of the show is how it leaks into life elsewhere. Every time I'm at a bar or caf?, I have to sit and watch every 30-something little foursome chat away, trying to come up with reasons — other than their own obvious shortcomings — why they can't find a Mr. Big. Boo hoo.