Drinking: Tea Time
What I am about to say will make me one of the, oh, 5 people in the world who can’t stand Sex and the City, who is not rushing out to a theater this weekend or raising a Cosmopolitan to my lips whilst teetering about on 4-inch stilettos.
(And in my little group of 5, I’m not counting the uptight religious folk who don’t like it on principle simple because it has “sex” in the title.)
Yes, I have actually watched the show. I figure it’s best to know what you’re talking about before you choose to call it reprehensible. So a few years ago, when the final season had just aired and everyone was in a tizzy because, oh god, what would they do without their SATC, I decided to see what the fuss was about.
I admit that I went into my Netflix marathon with low expectations. I had seen bits and pieces of the show before (it has been unavoidable), and I took an immediate and deep-seated dislike to Carrie. Admittedly, I can’t stand any of the girls. But Carrie is the worst for me. She makes me want to stab out eyes with sporks.
As if you didn’t know, Sarah Jessica Parker’s frizzy-haired fashionista is supposedly a writer on the show. It pains me that people who love the show, oh you many millions, think that Carrie’s brand of “writing” is suppposed to be good. The horror!
Any time she would flip open her laptop and flick on a cigarette, I felt rage begin to well up from the tips of my toes. And then the “writing” voiceover would begin:
“I couldn’t help but wonder, when it comes to being carefree single girls, have we missed the boat?”
“Later in the day I began to wonder, are we simply romantically challenged, or are we sluts?”
“I wonder, in a world where leaving each other seems to be getting more and more frequent, what are the breakup rules?”
If SATC were created today, Carrie wouldn’t have a column in a newspaper (side note: how does she afford her ridiculous wardrobe on a salary from a newspaper, especially when she doesn’t even seem to work full-time???) — she would have a blog, and she would happily clatter away on her little keyboard, spewing all her random musings and boy-obsessed wonderings to the great unknown blogosphere. Kind of like I am doing right now.
Anyway, for those many and rabid SATC devotees and defenders, nothing I say will sway their love for Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte. But nothing they can say will change my utter contempt for this show.
I know it’s supposedly a great tale about the friendship of women and how it triumphs over all of life’s ills. And that’s nice and all, but it’s hard for me to see through all of the horrible writing and ridiculous scenarios and find such a diamond at the center of all the crap.
Perhaps it’s because I prefer boots to Blahniks, or maybe it’s because I was never a serial dater, or possibly it’s because I don’t give a shit about fashion, but whatever it is, the silly, self-obsessed, insecure, waspy girls of SATC will just never do it for me.
And if that makes me one of only 5 people on earth who feel that way, well, I’m just fine with it.
But if you are one of the many SATC lovers in my life (Michael, I’m looking at you), I’m not gonna love you any less because of your taste in television. Just please don’t expect me to go to the theater with you when you go to “get Carried away” for the third time in a row.
-Lo, with a kiss-kiss here and a hug-squeal there.