"Miranda Hobbes, what the f**k happened to you?"
My friend is actually yelling. She is not happy with her favourite fictional character's arc. It's unclear to her how we got here.
In the most recent episode of And Just Like That, the most kick-arse independent woman of the extended Sex And The City universe was trying to sleep through her partner's all-night bongs-n-beer parties, waking up at dawn to cross the city and fold her teenage son's underpants and bought a used, flea-bitten single bed to put in her mate's spare room to find some peace.
To my friend, and many others, this is a great betrayal. Because being "A Miranda" used to mean something, dammit.
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It meant that you were staunchly independent, career-focused, industrious. You were smart as hell. You were loyal but never a pushover. You were the kind of friend who would, eventually, call your buddy on her s**t, all the while knowing you would follow her into hell if she needed you there. You were sexy but never a vamp. Understatedly stylish. The quintessential no-bullsh**t New Yorker who liked bagels and spin class and the Times on Sunday morning.