Are you there Carrie Bradshaw? It’s me, Lindsay.
If we’re talking Sex and the City, I’m a “Carrie”. I think anyone willing to deem themselves a
“Carrie” is one. No one would willingly choose to be a regularly problematic, semi-narcissistic shopaholic with a brunch addiction and a serious shoe problem unless it was undeniably true. Carrie had it all: the career, the romances, and most importantly the shoes. I’ve spent countless nights hunched over my laptop screen typing away with Sarah Jessica Parker’s voice ringing loud and clear in my head. She asks all the right questions and although I may not have the answers immediately, I know she’ll give me at least an episode’s length of time to figure it out. Carrie helped me figure out what I want to do and who
I am. Also did I mention the shoes???
One thing Carrie couldn’t prepare me for is a problem she didn’t have. A friend problem. What do you do if you’re a “Carrie” but in your circle being a “Carrie” means you’re the weird, eccentric girl?
What do you do if you don’t have your three best friends to help guide you and ground you? Who do you turn to when you need your problems put into perspective? What happens when Carrie teaches you to be a take-no- shit kinda girl, but she is enabled to be so by her friends? I always thought I had a clear understanding of myself through what Carrie gave me, but Carrie couldn’t give me friends. Not in any sort of real, tangible sense. She couldn’t give me someone to have brunch with. I desperately wanted to have brunch with someone. To me, Carrie was nothing without her friends. Wasn’t that the whole point of Sex and the City (besides sex)? So I left the image of myself as Carrie behind and I tried to move on. I tried to make myself into this person that could have friends. I thought if I could create an image to hide behind that people would only think of me how I wanted them to. I’m hopelessly codependent. I really want everyone to like me. In that sense, I’m unapologetically Carrie. The world was my Mr. Big and I was pleading with him to accept me and my love, but I wasn’t giving him a clear idea of who I was. I was still finding myself. Existential Carrie Voiceover still had a lot of questions to ask me before I could have my big finale with Mr. Big.
I turned to Carrie once more.
“Are you there Carrie?” I asked as I hunched over the side of my bed, hands clasped tightly, “It’s me, Lindsay.”
I looked up at my ceiling.
“I’ve got a question to ask that I’ve typed, but it’s been sitting in my drafts unanswered way past the ending credits.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You see, I’ve been asking myself what came first? The chicken or the egg? Or in this case Carrie or her friends? Would Carrie be Carrie without her friends, or would she not be friends with those girls if she wasn’t Carrie?”
The answer came to me. Not in angelic form wearing Manolo Blahnik pink suede strappy sandals, but as a thought in my own head. Carrie’s friends are friends with her because she’s unapologetically herself. Just as Carrie is friends with Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda because of their own unique personalities. They’re individuals bound by their love for brunch, shit talking, and New York Fashion Week.
Although my own form of Sunday brunch happens to be 2AM Denny’s runs with my friends, I know I owe it to Carrie. I couldn’t have found my love for writing or my fondness for fashion without her. Ultimately I think it’s important to remember that whether you’re sexually indiscriminate like Samantha, unwaveringly romantic like Charlotte, decisively career driven like Miranda, or a good ole’ Carrie like me, you are exactly who you are supposed to be.