My relationship with SATC has been a lot like dating: It started out with a crush and ended with an eye-roll.
Let’s talk about sex — Sex and the City, that is. (Wink wink, groan groan.)
Who among us does not know all about Charlotte, Miranda, Samantha, and Carrie? Who among us has not, at one point, coveted an outfit or a one-liner from an episode? Who among us does not throw up in their mouth just a little bit at the thought of a show about rich ladies kvetching about men over cocktails?
My relationship with SATC has been a lot like dating: It started out with a crush and ended with an eye-roll. Call me shallow, but the glamour got me at first — the same way that Val Kilmer’s intense blue eyes made my heart go pitter-patter as a tween. When the first Sex and the City film came out, I went to see it with my mum and best friend for a girls’ night…even though I had never seen the show and couldn’t understand (or care) why Carrie and Mr. Big could not get their shit together. My mum, similarly, fell asleep 10 minutes in — but we still ended the night talking about boys over cosmos in a Mexican restaurant (because that’s what human women do in groups, right?).
It was a decent enough first date to warrant a second. Plus, my cool big brother said it was a good show.
I was shy to commit to binge-watching six seasons of girly sitcom, so it took me a long time (eight years?) to finally make a date with my roommate’s DVD collection. Once I did, Sex and the City and I seemed to hit it off. We had some laughs. I even cried when Mr. Big and Carrie broke up the first time (YES it DID remind of MY LIFE, OK?!), and in a moment of weakness I decided which “one I would be” (probably Samantha, if I didn’t know too much about STDs and have a fragile little heart from my time as a Christian teen in an abstinence club).
Yes, SATC and I were a hot item there for a hot second. Then, as these things happen, the spark fizzled. For that obsessive week of binge-watching, I felt fabulous — transported to a glamorous and romantic version of young adulthood in New York City that A) I will never experience even though I have been in New York for my entire young adulthood and B) probably doesn't exist. Like all fever dreams, I came out hazy and cranky with that fuzzy-tongued, I’m-missing-something feeling. Too much champagne. Too much Vogue. Too much “I am woman hear me roar” and not enough “the first American generation not doing as well as their parents.”
The world (and dating) has changed a lot in the almost 20 years since the first episode aired. I wonder: has this iconic franchise actually become a period piece? Has Carrie Bradshaw gone the way of the unicorn?
If SATC came out today, which elements would still be fabulous …and what would be dated?
I’ve compiled a handy list to help us sort through this relevant, emotionally fraught tangle of questions that may be even more confusing than choosing between Aidan and Big.
Hey, adulting is hard.
1. Having an Upper East Side apartment to yourself on a writer’s pay.
This is not a thing, Carrie, you dirty liar — unless, of course, you are from a wealthy family, have murdered an old lady for her apartment/stolen someone’s identity, won the housing lottery, or are a New York Times bestselling author (which, I grant you, Carrie becomes). But in real writer life in real New York, Carrie Bradshaw would probably be a 30-something lady with a cat and two roommates she met on Craigslist, sharing a railroad apartment in a food desert in Queens on an unlit block that's a 15-minute walk from the subway with an ongoing cockroach problem and intermittent heat outages. Ask me how I know. La vie boheme, anyone? #therealcarriebradshaw