Everyone loved the Carrie and Big storyline, because, who doesn’t love a fated couple story? What they don’t usually like to recall is that whole pesky business of Big’s marriage to Natasha in Season 3. Another woman? How dare he! The nerve. The heartbreak.
If you are indeed a SATC fan, you might know where I’m going with this one. Yup. “The Attack Of The 5’10” Woman”, Season 3, Episode 3. There are actually two components of this episode that I just loved to death and therefore, require my prompt and loving attention.
The first bit is likely the most obvious, which is where Carrie tears herself to shreds, relentlessly comparing herself to Natasha. She even attends a charity luncheon in the hopes of bumping into her. I remember when I first discovered that my ex had cheated on me with a leggy, outgoing brunette. I looked at her social media for all of five minutes before blocking her and saving myself the pain and torture. Who the fuck needs that? No one. And yet, we do it to ourselves all the time. Endlessly. We compare.
We don’t just compare. We compare with an eye to total annihilation. We massacre ourselves. We become the most disgusting versions of ourselves and they, the competition, becomes the most stellar version of themselves, and we drown in rough waters of our own making.
I know I’m not alone here. Many a friend have shared their comparison stories with me. Occasionally, the recounting starts off sounding like it might be positive, but always bottoms out at the end. The best case scenario is “s/he is gross, so good luck to both of them”. Sigh. That’s a whole fucking mess too. Why? Well, there is still a whole tangle of emotion caught up in there.
Don’t get me wrong. What I loved about the episode is how fucking real it was in every respect. Carrie did what we all do. She deeply desired to see the woman who won. She compared and fell short. She ran through the so-called end of her relationship and wondered what might have been done differently. She was desperate and needy and sad and self-loathing. Yup. That’s the real shit.
Why did I find this so pleasant to watch? Well, because it’s normal. The show normalized something painful and absolutely real. We don’t just want to size up an ex’s new choice. We want others to tell us that we are so much better and that our ex made a terrible choice and that we are better off. We want to stumble upon a flaw in our careful examination of this new human.
Even if we don’t want someone any longer, human nature pushes us to remain in the top spot. We don’t want to be left behind or replaced or forgotten. We want to be immortalized. We want people to explain that things didn’t work out, but we are amazing, and it is what it is. We don’t want someone else to slide in and render us irrelevant. That is too painful.
I get it. I get it so much so that I loved watching the episode. I get it so much so that the episode felt physically painful. You know what I also get, now? We don’t need friends who come to the charity event with us. We need friends that tell us it doesn’t fucking matter. We don’t need friends who help us find broken bits and parts in our “replacement”, we need someone who tells us we are irreplaceable but then also, it doesn’t fucking matter. We need people who celebrate the choice we made or the way in which we are coping with a choice someone else made.
Don’t tell me that my ex’s wife is _______ to make me feel better about myself. Tell me that my feelings about myself and who she is, have literally nothing to do with each other. Disconnected facts and notions. Remind me that my ex was NOT for me. It doesn’t matter if he’s found someone who does it for him, because I wasn’t that person for him and he sure as shit wasn’t that person for me. Don’t encourage me to get to a place where I can remember all the good things or be happy for him. Share with me that you hope one day I don’t give a shit at all. You hope one day I can’t remember her name and I can barely remember his. That’s the kind of person everyone needs.
Okay, I want to save a few words for the other part of this episode I love. This was a secondary story line but a hilarious and meaningful one. Miranda’s housekeeper and nanny, Magda, replaces Miranda’s vibrator with a Virgin Mary statuette. I’m fairly certain I was happy to have an empty bladder during these scenes because it would have been game over. Hilarious. The passive aggressive play by Magda was fucking brilliant.
You know what I love more than their little sex-religious tug of war? Miranda’s perfect response. Ready? “I’m a 34-year-old, single woman living in New York. I drink coffee, have sex, buy pies and enjoy battery-operated devices.” Amazing. Love it. By the way, had she been involved in a relationship and said the same thing (sans single), I would have been here for it just the same. I love this. She owns her shit. She is unapologetic about her lifestyle and choices and sexuality.
We pretend like we are so progressive and we are anything but forward-thinking. Everything still makes us squirm. We can like raunchy memes online, but heaven forbid we actually tell someone that we enjoy pleasure outside of a monogamous and steady relationship. Worse than that? Don’t tell ANYONE that you liked to really enjoy yourself within your relationships. We have rules about that thing and it’s mostly mum’s the word.
Don’t mistake what I’m saying here. I enjoy propriety. I think there is a time and place for everything and I’m not about to turn into some crude and haplessly offensive human. Not even close. I’m just saying that the time has come for us to stop being so fucking embarrassed when it comes to finding ways to give ourselves what we need.
If we are really going to get real with each other, I think that’s the part that makes everyone feel so icky. We don’t NEED romantic entanglements or relationships. We don’t. Sex, pleasure, companionship, kids…these things are all possible without a partner. Hell, you can even find your way into an unpleasant verbal sparring without a boyfriend or girlfriend. The universe will deliver.
BUT what happens when we take away the need? Well, then it’s a want. Then it’s a choice. Then it’s something we desire, not something we require. Okay, who cares? Well, if someone tells you that you have to wear a uniform to work, and then gives you said uniform, you are going to slip on that damn uniform every single day without much thought. The absence of a directive? Well, now you have to choose your outfit. You still jamming your juicy peach into forest green polyester? Didn’t think so.
Talk soon.
X
L.
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