There have been a ton of Sex and the City memes and images floating around as of late. Swimming in endless pools of nostalgia, I found myself harkening back to my introduction and subsequent relationship with the iconic series. SATC, as it is known to fans and critics alike, first premiered in June 1998. I had just graduated from high school. I had a deep-seated love for flare jeans, fat, shiny, silver beaded chokers, chemical scented knits from The Limited, and carefully selected classic rock. My boyfriend had shipped off to Cornell a year before and I had a few months to prepare myself for life in D.C.
Looking back, I can almost taste the sweet nectar of my naivete and hopefulness. I was so juicy and endlessly flushed and always waiting. I was astute enough to recognize that the desire to fit in was a necessary evil but marched to my own drummer sufficiently to negate any real effort towards that goal.
As I’ve shared here before, my college experience was an awakening. I begrudgingly recognized my place and sense of the world in the greater context of everyone else (or at least everyone else in the small corner of the District of Columbia I inhabited and played in). In those three and a half years, I was most myself and least myself, simultaneously and separately. I was working hard to figure something out but wasn’t entirely sure what. Though I fancied myself a Golden Girls and Designing Women devotee, I would gather around the television with newfound friends to watch the latest episode of The West Wing. It was filmed in town, which is why we excitedly plugged in, but everyone liked to pretend they were stimulated by the dramatic elements and political education.
It wasn’t until late in my sophomore year that I even became aware of SATC. I learned of its existence through some women’s mag I picked up at the airport kiosk during one of my holiday jaunts home. I was instantly intrigued but without access. I was, after all, a basic cable gal. I did something which is almost unimaginable today. I waited. I patiently waited. I exercised patience.
My peaceful fortitude was met with success when the DVDs were released. Of course, I was a struggling college student with upside down priorities, so it was a good-condition-used-set from eBay that I eventually got my hands on. I gobbled it up. I was blown away. Complicated female characters. Real sex talk. Amazing and kooky fashion. Oh, and all the glamourous NYC you could get your hands on.
As I watched the same episodes repeatedly, I bore witness to evidence of the show’s success and influence everywhere around me. Name plate necklaces made a staggering come back and the pink hued Cosmopolitan was the it-girl drink. Each of the main characters had interesting qualities and personalities and story lines, but it was Carrie to whom I was undeniably drawn. I felt connected to her poor choices in love partner, wild curly hair, and penchant for writing in her underthings. I desired that kind of coolness. Intensely.
I had to take a hiatus from my new favorite program whilst I graduated early from college and fucked off in London trying to figure out what was next on my agenda. I worked and took classes and traveled everywhere I could. I wasn’t exactly cool, but I was closer to fearless. I allowed myself to get lost in the opportunity the universe presented. Carpe this fucking diem it anxiously whispered. And so, I did.
Then, I arrived home to New York, found, and discovered I was lost. Where would I live? Who would hire me? Who were my friends, now? I bought beautiful thick, cream colored paper and printed up resumes and cover letters and contacted anyone and everyone I could think of and spent my remaining few dollars on the most current seasons of SATC.
The characters were of course aging, but I didn’t feel that way. Not in any sort of conscious sense. The opposite happened. I felt the gap closing between where they were in life and where I found myself. A glowing beacon in the fog of quarter century tumult.
My love affair continued through the last episode that was ever aired (when I had finally acquired HBO), each and every movie, and will carry on as we all face this new SATC, sans Samantha and with the hindsight of a human living through something of an on-going shit show.
So, is this just an ode to one of my favorite television programs? A verbose explanation behind a guilty pleasure? Well, yes. Sort of. Don’t we all need a little distraction these days? I do.
Thus, the next five days will be filled with five of my favorite SATC episodes and an explanation of what made them meaningful to me then and likely, what makes them important to me at this point in my life.
I’m going to wrap up today’s post and kick this love fest off with “The Baby Shower”, which was Episode 10 in Season 1. Season 1 had its hiccups, but that’s pretty normal in series land. All in all, the first season provided a solid introduction into Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha. Also, some pretty meaty topics were addressed. Anyway, if you know the series, you might either get a good chuckle out of this choice or feel indignant.
The bottom line: baby showers can be atrocious and painful for single, childless women. The other message buried in the humor? Not every woman is built or destined for motherhood. I can’t lie to you. The first bit gave me a laugh. I’ve never been built for showers unless they include water and soap. I have people in my life who I adore more than I could ever express, and I still imagined magical ways of transporting myself OUT of their wedding/baby showers. Beam me the fuck up Scotty. I don’t want to ooh and ahh. I definitely don’t want to play games. None of it. Oh, and the ‘no really, I came up with something so different’ ploy?! Don’t try it. You didn’t. You haven’t. And if you have…it’s still a fucking shower. Sorry. I’m so so so happy for my people when good stuff happens to them. I LURVE shopping for the perfect gift. Just don’t make me go to a shower. Please.
The second bit? I want to tell you that it’s a lot more complicated, but it isn’t. Some women aren’t meant to be parents because they can’t (medically, situationally, etc.) and some women aren’t meant to be parents because they just don’t want to. It happens. More often than you think. And yet, the first fucking sentence out of ANYONE’S mouth when I meet them at a party is ‘do you have kids?’ Why? I swear, I’m so tempted to say ‘no, I haven’t subscribed to that bullshit, hyper masculine paradigm, and you?’. I don’t though. I just smile and respond in the negative. You know what also happens every time? The person who asked me apologizes. For asking? For assuming? Or because I don’t have kids?
NO apology needed. I’m good. I love children. I don’t have my own. Two facts that are just that. Not sad. Facts.
See you tomorrow.
X
L.
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