Sex and the City (And Me)

Recently, I’ve been diagnosed as “chronically single.” 

For context, I am not a big fan of men. I am more likely to avoid their presence than attempt to capture their attention. Perhaps that’s a leading cause of my ailment, but I’ve never sought a cure. 

I was raised by a father who brought me up like I was his only son. Whether or not this is a blessing or a curse, I am not sure yet. My closet is a collection of jerseys—authentic vintage and knockoffs imported from Thailand—ranging from sports like basketball, baseball, soccer, and more. Over the years, my father cultivated my knowledge of Dude Bro Cinema, schooling me on Gangster-Scorsese-Classics, Superhero-Masterpieces, and Raunchy-Seth-Rogen-Comedies. At one point in my life, I would’ve been quicker to name more Spider-Man variations than all five members of One Direction. Instead of ballet slippers, I was fitted for boxing gloves. Before my father dropped me off for college, he asked me if I was thinking about rushing his frat. 

Most would think this qualifies me for the role of Cool Girl™️ to the men in my vicinity. Most are wrong. Guys normally don’t like it when you know more about Tarantino than they do, nor are they more inclined to take you home when you fact-check their Star Wars references. No, Adrian, it wasn’t “Luke, I am your father.” The line is “No, I am your father!” Girls in sports jerseys are only cute if they’re clueless, not when they’re raving about Zinedine Zidane at the 2006 World Cup (a final match that made my father miss my actual birth, by the way). Joking around with bros is fun, until a hoe joins in. It is common knowledge that women will never be funny, bruh. 

I speak from experience. Nothing about this is a point of pride for me. I don’t subscribe to the “Not-Like-Other-Girls” superiority complex. I recognize it as a fatal flaw, a turn-off if you will. The baggy clothes, the unintentional manspreading, the crudeness in the language I choose, the desire to one-up the men around me, the audacity I swagger around town with—these are all things that have made me feel less of a woman. 

Sex and the City changed that. 

The show premiered nearly 30 years ago on HBO on June 6 at 9 P.M. (ET). The premise was simple. Here was sex, here was the city, here were four gal-pals gallivanting around New York looking for the next gentleman to roughhouse with. Carrie can never get over her ex-boyfriend and is outrageously annoying, for a multitude of reasons other than just her addiction to her ex. To many viewers, Carrie is annoying to a point that makes Sex and the City unwatchable. Miranda is a workaholic who doesn’t know yet that she’s a lesbian. Samantha loves sex, that’s what the S in Samantha stands for. Charlotte is a prude and a loveless loser. 

However simple of a premise it is, things, as they are wont to do, get complicated. Hijinks and kinks ensue, resulting in six seasons, two movies, and a reboot now available on streaming just in case you couldn’t get enough of Samantha’s sidekicks (I only kid, I promise). 

At the time it aired, Sex and the City was revolutionary. Here was sex, here was the city, here were four women in their 30s-40s—not their teens or 20s—on television openly discussing topics like misogyny, porn addiction, homosexuality, and body image. Here was also copious amounts of nudity, because it’s HBO.

When I first came across it, I was in my sophomore year of high school and comfortably donning an oversized Lakers t-shirt to bed. I was in need of a show to fall asleep to. When I clicked on the first episode, I found a show to stay awake for. 

To simply write about Sex and the City would not be enough to encapsulate its magic. The grain of the film, the delicately chosen soundtrack, a costuming department with no objective other than to embody haute couture, a narrative driven by the choices of women—these are all elements that add to the show’s charm. But a dedicated viewer must witness the first moment Carrie and Mr. Big meet, indulge in Miranda’s compulsive heterosexuality, delight in Samantha’s sexual liberation, and tolerate all of Charlotte’s ridiculously impossible standards—all before they start understanding what exactly makes Sex and the City an essential watch before dying. It’s not the Manolo Blahniks, the glamorous lifestyle of well-adjusted white women in the 90s, the “hot” men the showrunners want so desperately for you to believe are actually hot, the sex, or even the city. It’s four things really, four things that if absent, would have resulted in the show’s complete failure. I’m referring of course to Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte. 

Maybe sex would have been enough to attract and entice viewers, but the four central women were what created a fan base that wanted to commit. 

Carrie was annoyingly desperate, but she was raw and real, a bit too real for those who didn’t like seeing a reflection of their realities on screen. If you’ve ever seen Chris Noth in a tuxedo, you would go crazy for six seasons too. She wrote it like she felt it, never feeding the audience empty and shallow fairy tales. Was it New Yorker fearlessness, or was it just Carrie’s unabashed courage as a writer? Carrie demonstrated the punching power of nothing but the truth.

Miranda worked too much, but such was the expectation for a woman in a man’s workplace. Maybe she did like men who she had to baby. Self-reliant women love to take control, of course. For a repressed mean lesbian, Miranda was the demanding b*tch Meredith Brooks once envisioned for the women of America. Miranda is the b*tch we want to be in our careers, in our relationships, in our lives. Miranda taught me that being a b*tch was sometimes a prerequisite to independence. 

Samantha loved sex. There is no but. Samantha is more accurately described as someone passionate about sex. If there was one thing to Samantha that took priority over sex, however, it was her girls. Samantha was undyingly loyal and passionate about Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte. She was also passionate about her sexual freedom, a passion that made the women who were watching comfortable with the labels sl*t, wh*re, sk*nk. Samantha exemplified the strength found in passion. 

Charlotte was a prude, for good reason. She had high standards, but why wouldn’t you? Shouldn’t you? Ironically, Charlotte’s conservatism radically challenged the biggest question looming over women in their 30s. Why settle? Charlotte was a woman who believed in her own value and did not ever abandon that belief. Charlotte carried a stubbornness and determination for the life she knew she deserved, and it’s a quality we all ought to aspire to. Charlotte was a testament to value, knowing yours and knowing your own. 

Me and my friends attempting to recreate the scene where Carrie is jilted by Mr. Big.

I’m not sure what kind of conversations you may have with your mother, or even your father, but there are issues you may not be inclined to discuss with the people who brought you into the world. Masturbation, for one. How good your ass looks in a mini skirt, for another. Pregnancy scares, sl*t shaming, petty arguments with girlfriends over a man, and how to get over a shitty ex-boyfriend who rocks a suit and a seven figure salary—these are all situations where Sex and the City became my Apple Genius Bar. Who needed awkward talks about the birds and the bees when you had Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte?

Here was a window into four women who were living it up in the city that never sleeps. Here were their fears, their flaws, their pain, their wins, their losses, their heartbreaks, their most vulnerable moments. Here was the wisdom they all gained from it, framed through the lens of Manhattan luxury and accessorized with archival Valentino. 

And for a teenager who wore Jordans and parachute cargo pants, here were four examples of what being a woman could look like (Spoiler alert: Fabulous hair, clothing, and shoes are not a stipulation). For an up-and-coming woman, here were 94 lessons for a life full of hijinks and kinks. For a fifteen-year-old girl who felt lost and confused, here was hope that the world doesn’t end at the first sign of crow’s feet or when you turn 30.

So when the words “You can’t do it,” slapped me in the face, it was Miranda that reminded me to be the b*tch who dares. When I had a fight that threatened my relationship with my best friend Sophia, it was Samantha who emboldened me to break the silence and apologize first. And when I was dumped by my Mr. Big, it was Carrie who showed me it was okay to write about the hurt. It was Charlotte who let me know that sometimes, you have to walk away from what you want to make space for what you deserve.

Sex and the City is far from perfect. There is no denying it. It’s criminal to make a show about New York where much of the plot is predicated on the upper echelons of a straight, white society. Many have criticized it for doing so, and those critiques are valid. While it is a product of its era, there are parts of it that will forever remain timeless. But as I outgrow training bras, braces, and comic books, there is comfort in knowing there are four “chronically single” women who are always ready to gab about everything and anything. As I learn to live by my own definition of womanhood, having four examples of women who’ve been through it before I have. 

And in my own life, I’m lucky to say that I’ve already found my “chronically single” soulmates. So I’m okay with it being terminal.