On Girls’ Night Out (Or, Too old for the walk of shame)

You know what the second Sex and the City movie is good for? Bringing girlfriends together for a night of debauchery. Apart from that, not much. As one of the true devotees to the Sex and the City series, I can say that this film was crap. Carrie spends the whole of the movie searching for that “sparkle” she and Big used to share. The only sparkly moment, however, was a jewel of a scene between Charlotte and Miranda when they suck down drinks and confess that motherhood is not enough and that losing a good nanny is a more frightening notion than your husband cheating on you with said nanny. Miranda’s repeated clipped command Take a sip! had me laughing out loud and wishing I could down a martini with her and Charlotte, all the while crying the I-hear-you-sister chant (even though I am one of those mothers that Charlotte and Miranda pitied for having no help).

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.

On Being Real (Or, The Cheryl Lynn Revival)

In 1978, Cheryl Lynn released her pop hit, Got to Be Real, which I danced to in my bedroom, stereo blasting, heart and mind pumping with the notion that, at twelve years old, I had it together because I was being real!

Though the song has very few lyrics, this pre-teen was a deep thinking, introspective, and contemplative girl. I analyzed the hell out those words (to be real, got to be real, it’s got to be real, to be real) and determined that I was the genuine article being true to myself. Of course, I now realize that I had no idea of how much time it would take me to actually be real. I also realize that the song talks about real love and has nothing to do with self-actualization. But for my purposes, this is irrelevant.

I was given the chance to reaffirm my faith in Cheryl Lynn’s lyrics a few years ago, when I started hearing her song again on the radio. Or maybe it was in that Sex and the City episode, The Real Me. Or was it in a commercial targeting Generation X? I don’t remember. What I do remember is that the girl in me wanted to jump to her feet, throw her hands in the air, and dance her heart out. Which is exactly what the advertising executives wanted to happen.

Those ad execs didn’t count on the fact that I would take Cheryl Lynn’s message to heart. Or maybe they did, those crafty devils. I began taking a personal inventory, which I believe everyone should do at least once a decade, and I wanted to foster my meditative side. It had been too long since I last felt I was being real, and I wanted that feeling back.

Sure, this sounds like a typical story of self-searching in middle age. But what people always forget when they rebuff that cliché is that there’s nothing wrong with following the crowd sometimes and making that effort to improve ourselves. Mid-life is called that for a reason. The average life span is around 80 for women, so the middle seems the perfect time to stand on the top of that peak of life and dig deeply into your heart before being bold enough to look down that hill and say, Okey dokey, here I go.

And speaking of metaphors, I do think life is like a ski slope. You spend the first half on the ride up, dangling your feet on the ski lift, looking at things from a distance, feeling excited about moving on, and anticipating the adventure of what is yet to come. Then it is time to exit the lift and ready yourself for the journey down. The ride down the slope is much faster as time travels more than twice as quickly as it did while you were twiddling away on the ski lift. On the way down, images fly by in a blur. The wind feels so fresh and invigorating. You are flying while still grounded, and the thrill is beyond measure. A few moments into the ride, you suddenly become terrified that you will reach the bottom too soon, which will rob you of that feeling of being so alive and end the fantastic voyage.

Here is where the allegory ends because, unlike in life, you can always get back on the ski lift and do it all again.

But getting back on my tangent, the renewed popularity of Cheryl Lynn’s song is really a beautiful thing for my generation. We first heard it in adolescence while struggling with the fruitless dreams of understanding ourselves. And now we hear it again as a revival of what it means to know yourself and finally, after so much waiting, have the wherewithal to be real.

Back in 1978, I played Cheryl Lynn’s song on my album, and now I listen to her on my iPod. But no matter the media, the song remains the same, as I throw my hands in the air, ignore all inhibition, and dance in my living room, knowing that I have no other choice.

I’ve got to be real.