And please don’t get me started on the fashion. (Okay, you read the word fashion so now I have to bitch.) As one of Carrie’s contemporaries, I’ve always loved her style, and even though I know of no women who walk Manhattan dressed like Carrie did in the series, I accepted it because, well, it was Carrie. But in this movie, pleeeeease! When Carrie headed out to the spice bazaar – a sea of men in robes and women in burkas – she pranced around in a purple and white, full-length taffeta skirt and a T-shirt that says I adore Dior. I lost it.
photo by http://www.idailymail.co.uk/
Did the writer/director think that viewers would be too blind to find Carrie in the crowd – the only woman with an exposed face and a flowing wave of honey-colored tresses? Or were they intentionally slapping me in the face with the symbolism of Carrie as the free and independent woman? Whatever. I’m sure this film did wonders for Western and Middle Eastern diplomacy.
But that’s not really what I came to talk about today. (It’s just that sometimes a girl’s got to get these things off her chest, ya know?) What I really want to discuss is what happened after the movie.
[Disclaimer: If you're reading this post, Mom, it's all tongue-and-cheek. Although I love hearing from you, feedback is really not necessary on this one ;-)]
Inspired by the camaraderie of female friendship (if not the fashion), I headed out to enjoy the night life with my girls, Eloisa and Melanie. I hadn’t been to a club in a loooong time, proven by my schoolgirl glee at being offered free cover ($20) and free drinks for entering a club. Just because I have breasts. Apparently, this is commonplace in these parts where the clubs invite women in for free because the bars make their killing on stupid men trying to hook up. Those guys will hock their most-prized body part without thinking twice if it will get them a drink and the chance to get laid.
Good thing I was out to enjoy girl time with Elo and Mel, who is the only single one in our group. We drank and danced and took goofy pictures with all three cameras. (Ooh, could you please take a picture of my friends and me as we stick our chests out and smile in our wide-eyed drunken stupor? Aw, thanks. Now this camera. Now this camera. Too kind.) Then we drank and danced some more. And some more. And some more.
Me, Elo, Mel
Don't ask how many drinks I've had, but notice I've put my glasses back on to help myself see.
Four hours later, I knew there was no way in hell I was driving home. Mel lives very close to the club, so I slept on her sofa. For a whopping three hours before she woke up to get ready for Saturday morning boot camp. Crazy bitch. Not even 6:00 in the morning and I found myself still dressed to kill but with hair disheveled and make-up faded from sweat, second-hand smoke, and exhaustion. I did the walk of shame back to my car. Except that I wasn’t leaving a guy’s apartment. So what did I have to be ashamed of? Probably just the memories of a time long passed. And as my feet ached in my gold-strapped sandals, I muttered, “I’m too old for this.”
I headed home along the emptiest highway I’ve ever seen – the smoothest ride I’ve had on that road. Although it was heavenly watching the sun come up as I drove traffic-free, I prayed Hollywood would wait at least another two years before releasing another Sex and the City movie. As I said before, I’m too old for this and, I’m afraid, so is Carrie Bradshaw.