I’ve been coming across a lot of posts lately that seem to resonate with this article someone sent to me last week, which was a version of this one before that, which wasn’t so different from this blog post I whipped up two years ago, where I cried and cried about how ill-prepared I was for life in the big city no thanks to Carrie and her friends and her men and her shoes and honestly, television, how DARE you fool your simple-minded, well-meaning viewers into believing a shiny, cosmopolitan-fueled existence complete with a walk-in closet is more than just the ideal way to live in Manhattan, it’s the norm?!?!?
Because let’s be real for a minute. Back in those blissful, early days when HBO had us all believing we could navigate the Meatpacking District’s trendy cobblestone streets in heels, back when we thought the cupcake bubble would never pop (RIP Crumbs) and no one cared about Brooklyn (ohmygod remember when Miranda moved there with Steve and it was the WORST) and the likes of Hannah Horvath was still but a blessed seed germinating in the fruitful young mind of an overly ambitious millennial, the world was a simple, beautiful, easy-to-understand place: There were the Carrie girls, and there were all the other girls. And if you were a Carrie girl, life was pretty darn good.
Armed with a few good girlfriends, the occasional champagne-based brunch cocktail and an open heart, you could accomplish anything … on a freelancer’s salary, no less.
Except, did we ever really believe that? Did we ever really think we could score that rent-controlled apartment of our dreams simply because we shared Carrie’s passion for Manolo Blahniks and belief in the power of good sex? Sitting in my impossibly box-like, over-priced studio apartment which, for the record, still plays host to the occasional mouse, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was “Sex and the City” fooling us all along, or were we just fooling ourselves?