In 2004, I officially got carried away. Sex and the City reruns started airing on TBS, and I was hooked. I’d sneak and watch the show every Tuesday, closing the door so I wouldn’t get busted by my mom. My middle school friends and I talked about the chronicles of Carrie and her crew over Styrofoam trays of mystery meat as if the show hadn’t ended months ago. The glitz and glamour, artfully depicted heartache and the toned-down, steamy sex scenes were heaven to me, a 14-year-old native New Yorker stuck in the Southern suburbs.
That infatuation continued throughout my high school years while I was choosing colleges and a career path. I already knew that I wanted to write, but I wanted to do it the way Carrie did! So at 18, I read all the Candace Bushnell novels that my small town library carried and decided to be my own Bradshaw.
Although my dreams are more realistic now, I still reread the title novel and movie books all of the time and my pink velvet-encased series collection is one of my most prized possessions. And of course, a pretty pink cosmopolitan is my drink of choice whenever I go out.
“You are SUCH a Carrie!” my friends always tell me. I can’t even lie. I live to hear that.
Yes, I love SATC. A little too much. So much that it’s affected the way that I think about my own off-camera relationships. I’ve saturated my brain with so much SATC that the line between fact and fiction is as thin as one of Carrie’s gauzy Chloé blouses.
Conversations with my friends mimic the ones that the girls had around their favorite coffee shop table. My friend Tranessa is convinced that the reason she’s not meeting men is because she’s so wrapped up in her nursing school work…and not because she refuses to go out and meet them. Needless to say, she’s a Miranda.
Then I have a close friend who ALWAYS has sex on the brain. We can’t catch up without her filling me in on all of the wild and crazy things she does with her boyfriend. That’s my Sam.
And me? Though I love me some Bradshaw, I’m a Charlotte and Carrie hybrid. Even though I’ve been scorned, I’ll never give up on love. And because of that, I have a tendency to cling on to the guys that should be tossed into the Hudson.
Carlos, my summertime friend-turned-fling, is bad for me. Everyone knows it. I know it, too. Even though he’s an as*hole, I always come back – he’s just so cool, charming and handsome. He’s my season two Mr. Big. I hate to admit it, but I’m really hoping for a happy, end of movie one-style ending with him. Carrie analyzed every single thing that her of-the-moment love interests did. It was her job. For me, it’s a bad habit. She chased Big around relentlessly until the cards worked in her favor. It made for good TV. For me, it’s just unhealthy reality. The rational part of me is starting to realize that love can’t be based off someone else’s story.
Michael Patrick King and Candace Bushnell did a fantastic job of creating and molding these characters that have resonated with so many single women all over the world. I just have to remember that in the case of Sex and the City, life won’t imitate art. But I’m still holding out for an Upper East Side apartment and a closet full of couture footwear. Hey…a girl can dream.
CollegeCandy, do you have Carrie fever? Who’s your favorite character?
When she’s not watching for Blue Ivy sightings or doing some serious Facebook creeping, Khalea moonlights as a print journalism major at the REAL HU, Howard University. Follow her on Twitter at @letsbeKHAlear, or feel free to Twatch. Whatever works for you.