Sex, the City and turning it all into some kind of viable life mantra

I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who’s watched Sex and the City (both the films and the tv shows) and thought that the whole thing is just, well, a tad bit unbelievable. I’m not trying to profess that I can speak from experience, but the idea that there’s a group of 4 middle-aged women running around the streets of Manhattan, getting into hilarious sexual escapades, then candidly chatting about them over Cosmopolitans in some hip down-town bar is, for me, something that probably doesn’t occur.

Now I’m not saying that women don’t get into those kind of situations. I mean, for god’s sake the whole POINT of Sex and the City is that it embodies the life and times of real women “just like them”, but the precision with which it all plays out and the fact that nothing ever gets TOO drastic just seems like idealistic twaddle.

Nevertheless, these limitations haven’t stopped the vast majority of women idolising the characters of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda and vowing rather valiantly over one too many white wine spritzers (the poor-girl’s version of a Cosmo) that “men are bastards”, “all you need are your girls” and the ever-popular “if in doubt, buy a new pair of Manolos” (or your standard Topshop substitutes).

What’s my point? I’m not sure, really. I can’t claim to take a ‘holier than thou’ approach because I’m just as guilty of falling hopelessly in love with the “Sex and the City dream”. I too want to chart my encounters with my own Mr Big over artfully arranged Crostinis in Manhattan’s Upper West Side. I too want to drool over Manolo Blahnik courts (although I’d be inclined to swap them for a pair of Charlotte Olympia beauties) with my similarly successful girlfriends. Hell, Carrie’s life is the one that I would quite happily swap for my own for and seems to simply BE everything I want.

But sadly, I’m also a realist. I know that fairy-tales (of New York or otherwise) seldom come true and that while I’m sure at some point in the future I’ll be crying with a group of girls over why “he” didn’t call me back, I won’t be balancing a Mulberry Alexa on my arm and I certainly won’t be returning to my “cute n’ chaotic” Manhattan apartment to start another day of fun, frivolity and sex in the city.



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