Diary of ‘Sex and the City’ addict

Blair Adornato

As I sit typing at my laptop, staring at a blank screen, I am reminded that this is what “Sex and the City” is to me. It is Carrie Bradshaw typing her maddening question of the week on her laptop by the window, smoking a cigarette and plagued by curiosity at the struggles of relationships, men and dating while she seeks a response to that very same proposed question, staring back to its material translation on the computer screen.

And instead of cigarettes, I have a bowl of Lucky Charms, privately commiserating over my proposed question of the week just like Carrie Bradshaw – what will we do when “Sex and the City” retires? And just as Carrie wants to know how to deal with the ex, I want to know how I will manage without my weekly hour long allotment of metrosexuals, shoe obsessions, one night stands, weekends in the Hamptons and Samantha’s endless drive for orgasmic sex. I must admit that over the last three years I have become addicted to Carrie’s mannerisms, eccentric fashion tastes and the downright ballsy-let’s-talk-about-the-things-everyone-is-thinking-but-no-one-says nature of the show that makes “Sex and the City” what it is.

When I hear the jingly jazz of the opening song and Carrie running around New York in a pink tutu, I can’t help but be excited on a slow Sunday that has consisted of pajamas and messy hair. I think secretly every woman between the ages of 18 and 35 admires Carrie for the clothes that we would never dare to wear, for her posh lifestyle and her Greenwich stoop.

I know I personally would give a lot to have the life that Carrie does, and although we know it is an illusion, we know its television, that is the precise reason that we watch it – because it’s as close as we will ever get to it. Although Carrie is my personal favorite, I am not doing the show justice by failing to mention the quirky presence of the other three.

Maybe what makes this show is that all four of these women represent a different lifestyle and a different goal in life, and although I may want to be Carrie Bradshaw, the woman on my left is looking at Samantha and wanting to be the tramp she never dared to be. Maybe a lawyer raising a child alone sees Miranda and has renewed faith in her life. Maybe what “Sex and the City” provides women is a reflective look at the lives they want to have or perhaps for some a replica of the bonds they have with their close friends. No matter what it is, “Sex and the City” sends a message that resonates with the fun it is to be a woman today – to talk about the things they would never talk about with men, to relate and find intimate ties in a busy world of six billion people, to dare to do what is unexpected.

I don’t know if any show could measure up to the madness, the quirkiness and the sheer fun that “Sex and the City” has become. Somehow I know in the back of my mind that a slew of thirtysomething TV shows will try to replicate the legend that Carrie Bradshaw and her trio have created, and yet the magic of “Sex and the City” lies in that very fact – that there really has never been anything like it, and hopefully it will remain a legend in that sense.