"Goodbye, Sex" (vintage essay)

“Sex and the City” was kind of like a bad boyfriend.  I fell for it in spite of myself.  Got hooked, was always a little jealous of what happened when I wasn’t around, couldn’t figure out the clothes, got fed up and I was the one to break it off, but I never got it out of my system.  And now that it’ll be over, finally over -- I’m relieved, I’m sad, and the one thing that I can’t let go: why wasn’t I ever on it??

 

I never even got an audition!  Sure, there were a few parts for lesbians of color, and one time an angry black sister of one of Samantha’s exotic boyfriends.  Hey,  didn’t Miranda’s boyfriend have an angry black sister?  And the thing is, “Sex and the City” is (well, was) a New York City show, and one of the greatest things about this city is its multiculturalism and the urban working girl friendships that cross over so many barriers.  They should have called it “Sex and the Segregated City.” 

Oh, forget it.  I’m still a little bitter.  I don’t want to talk about “Sex and the City.”  My real-life version of “Sex and the City” doesn’t look like that show.  A show called “I Thought That Check Cleared,” or “Oops, I Missed My Weigh-In.”  Or “Late and Cursing.”  Those would be the shows about my life.

Carrie’s “outfits?”  Half of those ensembles would have gotten her arrested on certain New York streets.  Her closet with $40,000 worth of shoes?  Are you kidding me?  And all those men, from captains of industry to schlubs, to choose from??  But despite all that, there was something about “Sex and the City” that got to me.  Those four women loved each other, and protected each other, and defended each other.  Through sickness and health, celebrations and cancer.  Sisterhood is powerful, and I could relate to that. 

And now, with the final episode looming, I’m hooked all over again, and wondering if Carrie will “make it after all,” like Mary Tyler Moore did over thirty years ago.  Mary Richards had a life, a challenging job she loved, dear friends, and men, but she was okay whether she had a man or not.  So what’s the lesson of “Sex and the City” all these years later?  That thin women can earn their own money, own their apartments, have fabulous wardrobes but still feel incomplete without a man?  I wonder if we’ve taken a step backward, but in more expensive shoes.