I love to hate Sex and the City. The television show. You know the one with the overly perfect group of four friends, struggling through their late 20's into their mid-40's that have too much sex? Yeah that's the one. I think it's bad for women. Not in the 'everyone should strive not to have as much sex as they do' kinda way. You want to have that much sex? Go for it. I'm not even going to go into the fact that there are so many inconsistencies in the show that don't ever add up, that the show might as well have been a horny teenage virgins dream about what her and her friends would be like, if they owned a good bra and great shoes. Because shoes fix everything, don't you know.
I hate Sex and the City and all the shows like it because they're spot on in places and it infuriates me. I'm a fairly strong woman, with a decent amount going for her. So why am I single? Oh right. Because I'm a neurotic mess compiled with a slew of walking contradictions. Where the hell are my Jimmy Choos?
Of course all of this was brought up by the fact that I was being a stereotypical 20-something woman, sitting on the couch, talking to an ex about what went wrong, and halfheartedly watching a rerun of, you guessed it, Sex and the City. All I needed was my Northface jacket and a yogurt.
So there I was, at midnight on a friday night, house bound, mostly because of allergies; admittedly, watching a show entirely aimed at people like me. Just like a shot to my heart the nightly question Carrie asks herself is raised. “Soulmates: Reality or Torture Device?” So I bring it up to my ex. He says reality. Of course he does. I had to roll my eyes. It wasn't that I didn't think his answer was genuine, simply that for me, the idea of running across the one person I would spend the rest of my life with is an absurd concept. I've already come across two men I could have married. One of them even had a good job. Maybe I'd have my Jimmy's if I'd stayed... (I jest, of course). And then the thought occurred to me, I'm just not ready. Not an unusual thought of late, simply one that happened to meander through my brain at the wrong time. Hell I don't know if I'll ever be ready, I convince myself. I mean just reently I learned that I could legitimately be attracted to someone again. Sparks and all! Well no fireworks yet, or maybe ever. I really don't care. Is it odd though, that even as unready as I am, I still want to be able to come home to someone?
Once more my life seems to brush up on the edge of cliché and passe. I'm sitting in my pajama shorts, wrapped up in a blanket, typing this all away, with a distinct inner monologue playing, guiding my fingers to the right keys. Ultimately, my life is my own. Cliché or not. But man is being single getting old fast. I don't want Mr. Right-Now anymore. Then again I'm not ready for Mr. Right. Or who knows. Maybe I am and he just hasn't shown up with a white horse in shining armor yet. Maybe if I hold up a sign... Nah. I'd be allergic to the horse anyway.
At the heart of the show, Sex and the City is a feel good mostly romcom that tries to emulate real life as little as possible while still making a passable facade. The women are stereotypical and for the most part, fairly 2D. Doesn't mean I don't love them any more or less. The thing I love about the show? Knowing that if the ever crazy women of tat show can find love... maybe it's not a lost cause. But until that knight of mine shows up, I'm going to keep wandering in no-mans land blindfolded. I really hope they deactivated most of the mines.
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