In the summer of 2022, the New York City street was hot and my mind was running rampant. It was my first time in the Big Apple, for my senior trip, which we subsequently also turned into a family vacation–but don’t mistake that for a complaint. On our final day in the city, while I was headed to the Bronx Zoo, my cousin begged to stop by Carrie Bradshaw’s infamous steps. I’d heard briefly of Sex and the City, and had attempted to watch the prequel The Carrie Diaries in elementary school behind my parents’ back (of course, I had no idea of what exactly it was a prequel to). And in the November following that industrial getaway, I turned 19. It was my last year as a teen, and I had finally felt myself blossoming into a woman. Remembering how my cousin fawned over a set of concrete stairs, and how it always felt illegal to watch a television show with “sex” in the title under my parents’ supervision, I knew that there was no better time than now to nosedive into the franchise. The adventures of Miranda Hobbes, Charlotte York, Samantha Jones, and Carrie Bradshaw were like a prestigious family secret I was finally allowed in on. And after four months of binge-watching, with a prequel, seven seasons, two movies, a reboot, and a documentary over the reboot under my belt, I was hooked. And just like that, Sex and the City left a Manolo Blahnik-shaped footprint on my life.
Coming from the midwest, any big city is almost like a reset button. A picture of what your life could be like there flashes across your mind: what you might do, who you may meet, maybe what bites you’d grab to eat. I had seen a few larger cities in America, but none had struck me quite like New York. The energy hit me like a fly Yankees ball. It was electric from the first step, buzzing with motivation and promise. It felt like home; and it still does, even 681 miles away. During the summer of my visit, I was set on becoming a teacher. I wanted to get my degree and come home, teach at the same elementary school I was taught at, get married, have kids, and settle down in a not-so-modest home on a county road. When I started my freshman year at Ball State University, a passion I had long ago was reignited in me: writing. Growing up, it was virtually impossible to get me to give the pen or the book a rest. There came a point in my life, though, that I knew I had to sacrifice those dreams for something realistic; something I knew could at least guarantee I’d keep the lights on. The Shaffer Bell Tower became my Empire State Building, and Beneficence my Lady Liberty. Although, much like Shakira’s hips, my gut didn’t lie: I was born to write, and I was a New Yorker in an Indiana girl’s body. I was put on this earth for something much bigger than practicality. And finally, for the first time in my life, there were characters that embodied it all: Carrie Bradshaw and her wonderful band of misfits.
I wasn’t even a consideration when the show originally aired in 1998. Miss Bradshaw and her posse were enchanting to audiences of all ages, to put it simply. They had the shoes, the handbags, the boyfriends… but above all else, they had each other. They were so rooted in their own beings that no one’s presence or absence could truly disrupt that. We find that, no matter how our lives may differ from these characters, there’s a piece of each of them within ourselves. There’s a sense of comfort in knowing that you’re never alone, no matter what disgusting, humiliating situations you endure; and that is the entire premise of Sex and the City. Through love, lust, heartbreak, pain, anger, fear, and albeit joy, there’s an episode to match. Those four women never settled for anything less than they knew they deserved. They chased after their dreams until they caught them. The emotions present within the show are conveyed so well, they convince you it’s real. You’re immersed in the lives of the main characters, side characters, and everyone in between. Despite how unreasonable their lives were made out to be, especially coming from a midwesterner who was raised on realism, there was always an underlying message of acceptance. Accepting your fate, accepting facts, accepting others… No matter your shape, size, hair color, and so on, you have the capability to do whatever you want and be whoever you want to be. Just because you set high expectations for your life, it doesn’t make you any less human. That relatability has kept fans coming back for over twenty years.
I myself am within the new wave of SATC-enjoyers, and never will I be ashamed to admit it. Pop culture has shoved the New York fashion magazine editor troupe down my throat since the day I could walk, and I eat it up like a $1 slice of pizza. I feed into it until I’m stuffed, and Sex and the City revels in that fact. Above my bed is a black and white picture of Miranda, Charlotte, Samantha, and Carrie, nestled between posters of Stevie Nicks and Joan Jett: all powerful, determined women (or characters) who have all inadvertently shaped my life in one way or another. For months, I would watch this show over meals and in between classes. It had molded itself to me like the perfect pair of jeans. It quickly became a part of my daily ritual. I lived and breathed by it. And although it’s over for the time being, it will never be over. Everyday, those four characters are with me: in the things I say and do, what I wear, what I eat, as well as my future career. It takes bravery, and a pinch of craziness, to follow your dreams, and I wouldn’t be pursuing them had it not been for Sex and the City. I actually think it should be codified into law that you’re required to watch it once you turn 18, but regardless, my hope for this franchise is that it continues to inspire women, just as it did for me, for decades to come.