In her book Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns), Mindy Kaling describes the Sex and the City generation. She explains that everyone and their mother watched Sex and the City. It was not just a TV show; it was a way of life. They mocked Natasha for confusing “there” and “their” in her thank-you note for the Women in the Arts luncheon, and they ugly cried when Smith shaved his head out of solidarity for Samantha, because Samantha Jones was more than a fictional character—she was one of the GIRLS…as were the millions of other women who tuned in to watch SATC every Sunday night from 1998 to 2004.
What started as a pastime for this generation quickly became an obsession, and the distance from obsession to delusion is only a short walk or, in these women’s credulous eyes, a short taxi ride through Tribeca. SATC’s cult following is similar to that of the Peoples Temple. They were all drinking the Carrie Bradshaw Kool-Aid, cleverly disguised as an overpriced cosmopolitan. Carrie Bradshaw singlehandedly brainwashed an entire generation. They got Carried away, if you will. Contrary to common belief, the previously mentioned hobby-turned-passion-turned-cult is not unique to our moms and gay uncles. No, we children of SATC addicts have watched enough of the show with our mothers and their friends—and probably had Sex and the City the complete series on VHS in our basements growing up—that we too have experienced side effects of the Carrie Bradshaw Kool-Aid. This shit is inter-generational.
Right now, countless women from the class of 2014 are moving to New York City with the expectation of finding 6-inch stilettos that they can comfortably walk in, a gentle carpenter with long hair and a tender heart (I’m talking about Aidan, not Jesus), and a rent-controlled apartment between Park and Madison, and then having their dreams shattered when the city Jimmy Choos them up and spits them out. The truth of the matter is you will probably get a staph infection if you go out in open-toed shoes, most craftsmen look nothing like Aidan Shaw, and Carrie Bradshaw’s apartment doesn’t even exist. The apartment used on the show is actually located on Perry Street, between Bleecker and 4th, not E 73rd Street, between Park and Madison. See? Lies, I tell you! LIES.
Like most instances of brain-washing, the delusions Carrie Bradshaw has instilled in us may be permanent (or at least semi-permanent, which anyone who has ever used hair dye knows is the same thing). However, a successful form of treatment is coming to terms with the fact that taxis are not a realistic form of transportation, your shoes are just going to get ruined the minute you step outside anyway so you don’t need to break the bank for every pair, and Carrie Bradshaw’s literary voice bugs the shit out of you. Not to mention she kind of dresses like a crazy person.