Carrie Bradshaw is Ruining My Life
Photo courtesy of sexandthecitymovie.com
By the time you read this column, you will have undoubtedly seen the Sex and the City movie, the big summer blockbuster for women of all ages. (Unless you’re a straight male, in which case you’re probably doing everything you can to avoid being dragged along to see this über chick flick.) You’ve probably read the reviews, ogled the copious product placement, laughed, cried, dissected it with friends, and overpaid enough at the cinema that you felt justified in sneaking in to see something else. Thus I should feel free to discuss the movie here without worrying that I may be giving away crucial plot points.
That being said, I’d rather talk about how Carrie Bradshaw is ruining my life.
I love Sex and the City. The show was a cultural revolution for our time, despite its flaws (why is each of the “girls” white, straight, effortlessly upper-class and lucky enough to have a fabulous apartment in Manhattan?), and was embraced by women from all cultural, socio-economic and sexual backgrounds because of its frank and humorous attitudes toward sex.
Sex and the City also helped launch the careers of thousands of sex columnists, including this Vixen. As a result of fictional Carrie Bradshaw’s real-life popularity, most newspapers these days want a Carrie clone on their masthead. Carrie has given single girls in big cities a chance to express themselves in print, read by thousands of readers all over the world. So how, you may be asking yourself, is this a bad thing?
Though we may be able to look past the show’s outrageous fashion, its heterosexism and the peculiar way that all of these successful career gals just want to get married in the end, the one thing we may never be able to get past is the show’s portrayal of sex columnists. As the main character and author of every story in the series, Carrie Bradshaw is the albatross that hangs around every female writer’s neck. No matter what we write, no matter how hilarious or insightful we may be, the best we will ever hear about our work is “Oh, that was so Carrie Bradshaw of you!”
Despite the seemingly insurmountable obstacle of being a fictional character who has never actually written anything, Carrie Bradshaw is setting the gold standard for modern female writers. While it’s insulting to realize that the most recognized sex writer in the world isn’t even real, the bigger problem for me is that Carrie is rarely seen actually writing her supposed column.
Whenever we do find her “working,” she is perched before her MacBook, looking fabulously put together for someone who works from home. She is sipping a cosmopolitan and typing up rhetorical questions with sexual habits as her themes. It’s her shtick, and it works for her, but how does any of this translate to the real world?
As a real-life sex columnist, I can tell you that I have never sat in front of my MacBook wearing designer duds, full make-up or a feather boa. Unlike Carrie, I have often written things while totally naked, and sometimes even while masturbating – although it’s difficult to type with only one hand.
A recent Salon article notes that there has been a huge backlash against the SATC movie by New York women who are fed up with being portrayed as man-hungry and self-obsessed. Like many women, the existence of Carrie and her gal pals will forever taunt me for not being thin enough, fashionable enough or even as well-paid. Add on top the fact that I’m competing with Carrie’s supposed brilliance in the field of sex writing, plus the SATC movie’s conveniently timed wedding theme, and you’ve got the makings of my own personal neurosis.
I know it’s stupid, but I occasionally find myself lamenting the fact that I’m not nearly as successful as Carrie. I hate that her name is so catchy, and that everyone recognizes her as a brilliant writer. I’m jealous of a made-up person, but how can I not be? She has everything that women today aspire to have, from the sweet job and accompanying recognition to the posh digs, designer attire and the man of her dreams. I may have some of those bases covered, but often I feel like I will never get out from under her shadow.
Though Carrie is only 5′4″ without her trusty Manolos, the shadow she casts is huge. We simply cannot think about sex columnists without envisioning her. We cannot imagine that sex columnists aren’t as promiscuous, flighty and self-obsessed as Carrie is. How many times have I been introduced to people who commented, “Oh, I thought you’d be taller/older/wearing a corset/wearing a huge flower pin?”
In the end, I feel like I’ve set my standards higher because of Carrie, both career-wise and in love. Her relationship mistakes reflected my own, and ultimately helped me to realize that Mr. Big isn’t “the one” for everyone.
I am not like Carrie Bradshaw, and that’s a very, very good thing.
(Originally published at Hour.ca)
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