“Easy? You men have no idea what we’re dealing with down there. Teeth placement, and jaw stress, and suction, and gag reflex, and all the while bobbing up and down, moaning and trying to breathe through our noses. Easy? Honey, they don’t call it a job for nothin’.” – Samantha, Sex and the City
While I suppose it’s a slight bit pathetic that I look forward to the point every month when HBO On Demand lists the channel’s latest batch of Sex and the City episodes, they always seem to be oddly relevant to what’s going on in my life. [Then again, given my life, when would SatC episodes NOT be relevant?]
It’s interesting how the same issues circulate through many single women’s lives: commitment vs. freedom, marriage vs. singledom, skepticism (or hope) about the existence of The One (that oft-fabled but rarely realized Perfect Guy), what-ifs concerning the ones who got away (even though we pushed them there…), heart/passion vs. head/logic, worries about The Number, guilt over breakups, guys and their mothers (ick), the trials and tribulations of living with someone past a break-up (or running into him after the heartache is supposed to have healed).
Do we all have our Mr. Bigs, our Steves, our Treys, our Aidans? Am I supposed to identify with one of the female characters and choose my mate accordingly? Since I’ve always thought of myself as Miranda, should I be searching for Steve? [Though after working my way through Season Three, I’m thinking Aidan is more my pace… though – oh my god! – why on Earth does Carrie sleep with Big???]
Who the heck knows what the answers are for me right now? I certainly have no clue. What I do know: I’m not a freak for trying to figure things out or muddle my way through life or worry about what real love looks like. Life is messy and complicated, and even though I know there’s a huge (mostly male) contingent that believes the women on SatC are “cunts” (their word, not mine…), as someone whose life on an average day could more than produce enough fodder for an entire episode, I find it somewhat refreshing to be less lonely in my confusion (albeit with fictional company).
Cunt or no cunt, it is what it is. Inga Muscio would be proud. I think.