At university I lived with my three best friends. There was a couple of months at the start of fourth year when due to technical difficulties we had no television. Imagine. Instead, we hooked up an old VCR in the kitchen and worked our way through my Sex And The City videos.
Naturally, “Which character are you?” became a big topic of conversation. Which is silly. Because, whether we liked it or not, we were all Charlotte.
But I wanted to be Carrie. I’m short. I liked writing. I loved clothes. Carrie, right?
Which goes some way to explaining how little I knew about life when I was 21. I had no concept of what the show was really about, and no real empathy or understanding for the situations these women found themselves in.
Now I do.
And Carrie can be such an asshole. So selfish. So deluded. But who can blame her? She’s lonely as f***. No amount of Manolos is going to change that.
At 32, I kind of get this show in a way that I couldn’t ten years ago. And instead of proudly declaring, “I’m Carrie!” I have to kind of cringe and wonder, “Am I Carrie?”. Although I would never cheat on Aidan. Never.
Yesterday there was a Sex And The City marathon on E! which I found myself glued to. The episode of Carrie’s book launch was on. A book launch! I can’t think of anything better than writing a book and actually having it published and PRd up to the eyeballs.
But even in that moment of glory, Carrie isn’t happy. In fact, she tells Charlotte, “I’m lonely. The loneliness is palpable.” while surrounded by people there to celebrate her and her success.
Which goes to show, life means less without someone to share it with.
But then I guess if Carrie and Big had got together in the pilot when she had that awful brown here (I’m brunette and proud, but it did nothing for SJP), there would have been no twists in the road. No Aidan. No Burger. No horrible Russian artist weirdo. No story to tell.
And, like all writers, I do love a good story.
Pizza of Doom 
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