**Note To Reader**: This post was written at least eight years and forty pairs of shoes ago….
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About a year ago, a newer friend of mine commented that I was wearing a pair of earrings just like a pair that Sarah Jessica Parker had worn in an episode of “Sex And The City”. I told her I wouldn’t know because I had never seen one show. I had to sit her down and give her a paper bag to breathe into, she was so shocked. She thought sure I was a Carrie junkie. This is the second time in my adult years that someone has told me they had me pegged for a “SATC” girl. I didn’t see it. I couldn’t find myself relating to thirty-something women who lived to buy shoes in Manhattan and sleep with any man who would give them a second glance. I thought I related more to moms who carried Clorox coupons, females who thought the smell of chocolate cookie dough was sexy for a body lotion, and women who wore bras that were over 8 years old because … well… they could? Geesh, maybe I did need to add to my circle of friends.
For starters, I have only been to Manhattan three times in my life. And I live in New York! The only purchases I made while in NYC were a lime green scarf which I love and a designer lip gloss from Sephora which I still use. Not once during any of my trips did I ever go into a shoe store. Why would I? The fact is, I honestly have less than 10 pairs of shoes in my entire closet at any given time. Of course, boots don’t count in the summer and sandles don’t count in the winter. I have two pairs of sneakers, three pairs of high heels, a pair of professional slip ons that are kept stricly for business appointments (they are very comfortable, but have no style), and the rest are seasonal. And of the six mainstays, five are black. Colored shoes scare me.
The sleeping with strangers script doesn’t stimulate any of my senses. Above or below the waist. Maybe that’s because I’ve had less lovers in my lifetime than I have shoes in my closet right now. Maybe it’s because I’ve been happily married to the same man for ten years…consecutively, too. Maybe it’s because I would rather spend a chunk of coin on a good lipstick than a carton of condoms. No nevermind. This cultish fem show wasn’t one I would set my TiVo for. I’d rather tape a repeat showing of game seven of the 2003 American League baseball series than spend 27 minutes learning how to match a dress with new snake-skin Prada stilletos in order to sleep with the bartender of a martini bar. Gag me with an olive.
During my past winter from hell, where almost every week was spent in bed with some sort of respiratory bug, I became to hate all daytime TV. I had no interest in knowing the results of the eighth DNA test for some woman in Texas. I had learned the price of every shopping item from a pack of Trident gum to a new Ford Fusion. I had seen every deliquent cell phone bill and dog bite lawsuit on every possible judge show. I had a high definition TV, the remote all to my self, 1000 possible cable channels, and I was more entertained by taking a nap than anything I could find on television. So, while stumbling through my “On Demand” channels one day to see if anything was being replayed that I knew was good, like Bugs Bunny cartoons or past episodes of “Good Times”, I saw it. Then entire last season of “Sex And The City” available for me to watch at no cost with just a click of a blue button. Should I? Had my boredom reached its all-time low? Oh what the hell. I convinced myself that I was not turning it on to see if I liked it, but turning it on to get details about why I wouldn’t. I wanted to give my my friend examples of the lame storylines and the tacky trists of the main characters that did not interest me one ounce. With my finger on the cancel button, I began watching the first episode of the last season.
Nine hours later, I was still strewn out in front of the TV in the same clothes I had slept in the night before, covered with granola bar crumbs eating chocolate truffles and drowning in an empty six pack of red labeled Coke bottles. I was down to watching the series finale with tissues in hand ready for the flow of tears. Oh God, it was true: I was officially a “SATC” girl.
Now that the show has officially ended, I have to watch the previous episodes in syndication or on HBO’s On Demand service. Have I turned into such a junkie that I actually SURF the cable guide looking for any past show? Oh hell no. I’ll still bypass a night with Carrie and Mr. Big (yeah, okay, we’re on a first name basis now) to watch a good football game. But if it’s 1 a.m. and it’s either cosmopolitans with “the girls” or watching an infomercial for a health food juicer?
No thinking involved. Hand me a martini glass. With a twist.
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