It's nearly 20 years since we first met a group of New York women with an obsession for shoes, cocktails and talking about themselves. CONSTANTLY! Doesn't time fly when you're getting old?
Although I found all four self-indulgent characters as annoying as a relentless eyelid tic, it was Sex and the City's Manolo-wearing protagonist Carrie Bradshaw who really irritated the crap out of me.
Initially she didn't. In those first binge watching days I was young and undamaged by life. Carrie was my muse and my aspiration. Who didn't want her life, her style and her career? It was all so attainable!
But my perception changed one day when I stopped to ask myself why I've never sat in an '80s inspired Galliano tutu contemplating my new Vogue article.
I'll tell you why this hasn't happened. Because Carrie Bradshaw lied to me. My reality is I type away on a groaning laptop, with holes in my pyjamas and certainly no column to speak of. So I can't help but wonder... Why the hell did I trust Carrie Bloody Bradshaw?
Here are the reasons why Carrie screwed me up... and over:
She made me believe being a writer was glam, easy and VERY VERY profitable
Hmmm, let's look at this one, shall we?
Carrie was a newspaper columnist in the first few seasons. Do you know how much freelance newspaper columnists get paid? Not enough for an oh-so-glittering fabulous life, I can tell you that. God knows how she would have survived if social media existed. I'd like to see her survive on by-lines and blog links.
She lived alone in Manhattan, near bloody Madison Avenue. I can only just afford to live in a cockroach infested crumbling shack, with a guitar playing backpacker called Travis and a scrabble obsessed barista called Gwen. I certainly don't live in an abode where I can dedicate a whole west wing to an extensive designer wardrobe and Louboutin shoe collection. I have a trusty pair of stinky uggs and a pair of flip flops that have gravel stuck into the rubber sole.
Carrie talked the talk, but seriously? She was verging on psycho stalker for most of the show.
She went out for dinner and drinks pretty much 7 nights a week. If there was an 8th day she would've undoubtedly rejoiced, as this girl could party (and still gets up clear-headed to write!).
If I limited myself to McDonald's and happy hours at various pubs every night of the week, I'd still be contemplating selling a vital organ to pay for my extravagance. The fact she ate at Michelin star restaurants, drunk Cosmos left right and centre AND caught pricey city cabs is the producers having a big fat laugh at our expense.
She made me believe there's a surplus stock of eligible men ready to ravish me at every city corner
Thanks to Carrie, I grew up laughing at the suggested possibility I may become a lonely old cat lady. There would be so many "ones" to choose from I'd be exhausted and not only need a rest, but a personal assistant to sift through applications. Instead I got addicted to Tinder and continuously faced my condescending phone who told me I'd gone through all my matches. I wasn't picky; I'd take pretty much anything. There was also a 100k radius set. Oh, and I lived in the city.
She made me believe you could sit in your apartment downing wine, smoking ciggies and eating takeaway (on the rare occasion she wasn't at a fancy restaurant) without setting foot inside a gym, coughing like you were 90, or becoming an alcoholic
Sorry, but:
a) I would not be wasting time writing while I drank. I also wouldn't be able to see the words on the screen as I'm a lightweight. The hangover I'd inevitably have the next day would leave me bedridden for 48 hours.
b) My arms would not look like Carrie's (is she a part time gymnast too?) if I didn't ever do any exercise. They don't look like that now and I DO exercise.
She made me believe that being a self-righteous, self-absorbed narcissist would get me far in life
In one ep Carrie gets a pair of shoes stolen from a friend's party. Her friend blames her for the theft because the exy heels were just asking for it. Carrie justifies her pricey foot fetish by stating she doesn't get rewarded with gifts like her judgmental friend, who gets presents for life altering moments like engagements and babies. Aww, Poor Carrie. I thought you were a strong independent woman? Nope, just a kid throwing her toys out the pram, screaming "It's not fair!" This is just one example of her superiority complex. There are MANY more.
She made me believe that being a love addicted crazy person, unable to take no for an answer was totally normal
Carrie talked the talk, but seriously? She was verging on psycho stalker for most of the show. Lady, Big wasn't in to you from Season 1, you should have moved on. But no, she wore the poor guy down and we were all led to believe it was one of the most romantic couplings in TV history. WTF? Sorry, this just screams unhealthy obsession to me. It taught me it was fine to study a latest crush's work and social schedules and then randomly "bump" into him in the park. After standing behind a tree with oversized sunnies. At night.
It's lucky Carrie didn't get me arrested.
She made me believe that even after continuous failed relationships, I'd have the desire to keep going with a renewed zest for life
After each dating disaster I had, I certainly didn't run to the next guy like an excited panting Pomeranian demanding love and acceptance. I was more likely to cock my leg and piss on his shoe in utter disgust. No Carrie, you got this one wrong too. Dating left me drained, puffy-eyed and like a deflated balloon.
She made me believe that your mates would always stand by you and listen to your constant bloody whining, no matter what
Reality check peeps, no one like a Debbie Downer. And constantly analysing and depicting every freaking dating disaster is a snooze fest. Yes us girls do chatting and gossip well, but those girls seemed to do it ALL the time. Nothing was out of bounds. Friendship isn't a given. Constant negativity and continuous discussion about the same thing is tiring and can burn a friendship out pretty darn quickly. People outgrow people and they outgrow you, and it's certainly tested if it's all me, me, me.
So Carrie Bradshaw, you have a lot to answer for when it comes to the failings in my reality. Of course I take no responsibility myself. Well you wanted me to be you, after all.
Maybe I am. Just with crappier shoes and flabbier arms.
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