When the show originally premiered, we were all of us seduced by the name necklaces and Monolos; the spiky belts cinching tulle florals; the nightly Cosmopolitans and the constant brunching. Sex and the City gave us so many iconic scenes, I can barely begin to count them: Let’s take a moment for the guy with the funkiest tasting spunk and Geri Halliwell getting Evian-spritzed at Soho House.
The second film started strong enough—Liza Minnelli doing All the Single Ladies, anyone!?—but descended into a chaotic, culturally inappropriate charade. In those early days, something about the four women—especially the focus on friendship alongside rampant courtship—hooked us in and kept us glued. We hoped Trey would get it up, we rooted for Miranda and Steve, we supported Charlotte’s conversion to Judaism. Samantha repeatedly reminded us that pleasure could be seized rather than submissively given, which at the time was no small thing.
Carrie Bradshaw is, of course, quite a divisive character. Our early love for her slowly calcified as she continued to make irritatingly human mistakes: cheating on Aiden, re-sleeping with Big once he’s married, that bird in her hair when she got jilted at the altar. But she is the vestige of a bygone era, a New York with two towers and genuine attention spans and phones you had to un-flip, long before chopped salads and our mutual slavery to the like button. Carrie’s New York was a tinder of restaurant launches and gallery openings and one-night-stands with a medley of men.
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