I, for one, do not need pink cocktails to assert my womanhood. Sassy independence is not embodied in a pair of Jimmy Choos. And lunchtime with the girls isn’t the salve that heals all wounds.
But that’s never stopped me from tuning in Sunday nights to watch Carrie Bradshaw and friends squeeze into a trendy restaurant booth or amble down the street, impeccably groomed but impossibly frustrated, while trying to make sense of urban life.
As “Sex and the City” fans prepare for the show’s final episode Sunday, I have to say I’m glad it’s over–or at least I’m ready for it.
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Some things never sat right with me, such as Carrie’s syrupy Chic Lit pronouncements that any newspaper editor would have slashed or Samantha’s predictable one-liners that left her flat and insipid as a character. Meanwhile, Charlotte’s gullibility never improved despite her savvy, cynical friends, and for all the show’s progressive attitudes, Miranda’s intractable outlook limited her sex appeal in a 1950s kind of way.
But mostly I couldn’t understand why these women–sophisticated, intelligent, experienced–systematically destroyed relationships. Hesitation or fear of commitment, sure, but their failure after failure exhausted my patience. I didn’t recognize myself or my friends in the characters anymore.
A few seasons ago I was so irritated with Carrie’s juvenile, self-destructive behavior that I stopped watching for a while. What plausible reason did she have for dumping John Corbett’s sweet Aidan Shaw? Too many Sunday nights in a row left me raw. Carrie had opportunities for happiness, but she seemed to deliberately thwart them.
This season, with her new beau Aleksandr Petrovsky, Carrie’s hardly been the urbane, self-possessed character that confidently made her way around New York. There used to be a straight-talking, city grit to her. Carrie, despite the frilly trappings, knew what was what.
But on last Sunday’s episode in Paris, Carrie acted like a schoolgirl, appearing years younger than Petrovsky’s own existentialist, chain-smoking, twentysomething daughter. Sarah Jessica Parker seemed to be channeling SanDeE* from “L.A. Story” as she twirled across rooms and bounced on her hotel balcony at the Plaza Athenee.
Admittedly, the story was never “single, fabulous and loving it.” The silk faille frocks and crocodile clutches were always a temporary distraction from the characters’ underlying loneliness. It was the show’s sharp writing and recognizable problems that made us care. So when “Sex and the City” signs off Sunday, many good things go with it too.
The fashion! The fashion! I pored over Carrie’s outfits on the HBO Web site. Versace, Badgley Mischka, Prada. Her ensembles didn’t always work, and Carrie might have paid for her apartment twice with her clothes budget, but it was delicious fantasy. A gala or a quick run to the corner bodega–everything was a reason to dress well.
I envied Carrie’s career: a columnist who rarely sees the inside of an office and does her best work in pajamas. (Don’t we all?) Just living in the city gave her plenty to write about. As a fellow curly-haired girl and newspaper columnist, I occasionally fancied myself in her gorgeous shoes.
The show was a love letter to New York. I lived in Manhattan for a few years, and in any episode I loved spotting a familiar restaurant or corner of the park. Much in the way Woody Allen depicts New York in his films, the show treated the city like a character as prominent as any of the actresses.
So yes, I’m tired of girly ‘tinis, which inevitably slosh over the rim, and I’m glad that Uggs edged out pointy stilettos.
But I raise my Cosmo for a toast: to six years of glamorous city living, the occasional love affair and curly-haired heroines everywhere.
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