Shot Through the Heart - A Sling of Cupid's Arrow to Sex and the City

Valentine's Day is fast approaching, and this seems as good a time - or better - to send out my own personal little sling of Cupid's bow through the heart of the wildly popular HBO series "Sex and the City". To be quite honest, I am just as suprised as anyone with how this show has affected me, years after its debut, years into re-runs. Maybe it's the fact that I'm the mother of teenaged daughters who really, really liked the show.

Maybe it's the fact that I gave in to the guilty pleasure of watching it myself. Or maybe it's the fact that I could never watch a 'new' episode being aired; I always came back the next day when it was re-run to see what I had missed, so guilty did I feel about watching it. I never, ever wanted my viewing schedule to be wrapped so tightly about this cotton candy colored piece of fluff. As a grown woman, I would never admit to myself or to others that it held any significance in my life. And yet it did, bright lights, big city, bigger than life characters and all...

Valentine's Day is a day for lovers to celebrate their commitment to each other. The characters of "Sex and The City" would have a viewer believe that for them, every day is Valentine's Day. Their lives were so intertwined and defined by a man's love - or lack thereof - that they became the antiheroes of the spirit of Valentine's Day. Without the undying love of a man in their life, they were nothing.

Even looking at my words in print, I realize how silly they must seem. But the truth is, I had a morbid fascination with "Sex". It was my own dirty little secret that I had an interest in the lives of four vacuous young women living in my beloved New York City. As I grow older, however, I find myself not only a wee bit wiser, but also increasingly angered at my own stupidity at being sucked into what I now realize was one enormous, fictitious fairy tale. No New York City woman actually lived like these women; if they did, chances are they wouldn't make your "Favorite Four" plus one.

What the Mary Tyler Moore character represented to a generation of women over twenty-five years ago was strength of character in a single woman, living on her own in the 'big city', who used her wits, her charm, her intelligence, her sense of self to become the woman that she wanted to be. Did a man define her? A resounding "No"! What message will the generation of women who wasted their time on "Sex" take away from their hours spent in front of the television?

That single women living in a big city, in the end, can't even take care of themselves or find their own sense of self without a man in their lives. "Sex" set back what I gingerly call the 'feminist' sensibility at least thirty years. The "Sex" girls' only resemblance to Mary Tyler Moore is the bond of friendship between women. Their gaping difference is that Mary Tyler Moore did not whine throughout the life of the series about her failed engagement and the lack of having a man constantly in her life. For Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and especially Samantha, they were defined, in their own minds, by the men who provided - or not - sexual fulfillment that vaguely might resemeble love.

I watched this show because of the clothes and because of the setting.Mainly, I watched to see what the stylists would come up with for Sarah Jessica Parker. Though not a conventional beauty, I had admired SJP's work in the sitcom "Square Pegs" years ago; I thought that she was cute, spunky, and willing to put herself out there in a 'geeky' role. Parker's hair would be tinted, waved, curled, parted; roots would show, brows were always dark.She has what I've always thought to be a really interesting face, one that you could stufy for some time: slightly crooked nose and smile, deep set eyes, great cheekbones. She wasn't tall but she was tiny; costumers for "Sex" must have been able to comb every sample sale from every designer with a shop in the city for her outfits. And they were truly 'outfits', not the kind of clothes that ordinary folks wore..

They were amazing! She did her laundry in pricey jeans and designer tops. Even the street on which she lived was amazing! Beautiful brick townhouses, gated entries, cool, hip couples and singles overwhelmed the few golden agers living on that street. (Generally, it's those wealthy older ladies who have the trust funds to live in those neighborhoods in the first place. How on earth could she afford it on a writer's salary?) Her apartment itself was the epitome of cool: sleek, modern furnishings, tons of light drifting in through windows (windows! in a New York City apartment!), more than two rooms to the apartment itself! Carrie made "Jimmy Choo", "Manolo Blahnik", "Chanel", "Barneys", "Versace" words that stretched from being nouns almost to the point of being verbs.

This was a woman who wrote a single column in a New York City newspaper, and who was thrilled to be paid $3 a word for a Vogue article. How on earth did she make enough money to purchase these designer duds? Apparently this character never had to worry about paying for medical or dental insurance, never put money away in a savings account (remember when her apartment building converted, and she relied upon the generosity of Kristen Davis' character?

Charlotte gave Bradshaw her (used) wedding ring to use as a down payment.) Yes, it was pretty neat to see what fashion trend Carrie would set at least once a month; the one that I remember the most was wearing a fabric scarf tied around her arm, just above the elbow. But life for her character revolved around the men - or lack of them - in her life.

God only knows how many viewers, like myself, were tricked into thinking that any sane person could live in Manhatten like Carrie Bradshaw did. The woman blew whatever money she made on an extensive, obsessive shoe compulsion, she never saved any money, or for that fact, she never did anything of good with it either. Do we remeber Carrie donating to a charity? What about her family? Were her parents alive? Was she an only child? Or was she, in the blissfully vapid minds of the writers the ULTIMATE single - no parents, siblings, no family ties. Do we remember seeing her helping out at a homeless shelter, working at a city cooperative organic farm market? In the last episode, all is now right in Carrie's world - she's back with Mr. Big, to whom she is "the one" (whatever that means in manspeak).

Their relationship, or lack thereof, formed one of the primary themese of the show. All it took to make Carrie Bradshaw the happiest woman in Manhattan was to be "the one". Did they ever marry? Did they have - or adopt - children? Did she ever get a better job, a more fulfilling career? Did she do anything MEANINGFUL with her life? By the end of the series, I, for one, really didn't even give a damn anymore.

The one character that I felt was most interesting was Miranda. Philadelphia born, an attorney/partner with a top drawer New York City law firm, she stood the most to lose on "Sex". In the end, she alone was a true winner in my book. She had come to terms with 'growing up'. She made tough decisions about abortion and marriage, about moving from the bright lights of the big city to what her friends saw as the 'armpit' of Brooklyn.

She did what was best for her because she wanted to do what was best for those that she loved. In the end, Miranda was the girl with all the marbles: a man who adored her and wanted to marry her to keep her in his life forever, a little boy around whose well-being both of their lives revolved. Miranda really was the 'smart' one; she carved out a fulfilling life for herself by allowing those that she loved to become a part of it. And she never had to wear that damned bandana looped across her upper arm to prove it!

Samantha became, rather quickly, a true caricature of the 'sexy New York single gal'. Too old to be considered a 'gal', too amoral to be anything other than the blonde who dressed outrageously and lived outrageously, she became a figure to be pitied rather than admired. So self-centered a character that in the end, having fought through breast cancer, having won the love of the one man who stuck by her through good times and bad (which still remains a mystery!), all Samantha could tell him was that he was the "best".

No "I love you for all that you've done for me" from this woman, just an acknowledgement that he had become the most important man in her life. What a sad, pathetic, woman. Fighting the inevitable loss against physical beauty to its bitter end, :incapable of giving love, she was too much of a coward to accept it when it came her way. Maybe 'coward' is too soft a term; 'narcissistic' rings much truer.

Kristen Davis' Charlotte was perhaps the least interesting of the characters in the lineup, on a small-screen level. All she wanted was the home in suburban Connecticut with the white picket fence, a couple of adorably-dressed children, and a successful husband. Unlike Samantha, unlike Carrie, she learned to compromise. True love caught her, I thought, totally by surprise. We can't rewrite our histories, and can only be in awe of our futures. The love of your life is Jewish, but you're not? Convert! You can't bear children?

Adopt! The seemingly insipid Charlotte showed a lot of guts by not only accepting the challenges thrown her way but also by overcoming them with an inner strength that few of us ever saw coming. Sweet Charlotte, always the preppy cheerleader at heart, found herself defined by a love more different that she could have ever imagined. In her white bread, white gloves world, maybe she could have walked away. (Just how rare are single straight women toting hefty stock portfolios in New York City, anyway?) Life is about fulfilling your own dreams. When those dreams become drenched in reality, Charlotte dug deep within herself to not only accept but embrace them.

I was a little bit surprised in reading an article a few years ago about the success of "Sex and the City". The author claimed that the show's premise was the perspective of gay males about how fabulous life in Manhatten could be for single, attractive young women. The jewelry, the cutting-edge fashions, the hair, the to-die-for apartments, the expensive dinners out, the club scenes: all of these drew from that perspective. I found that to be slightly amusing but certainly thought provoking. After all, don't we have New York City's gay men to thank for much of our fashion sense and personal stylings? And wouldn't life be great if people actually COULD live like the girls?

By the end of the series, I really felt betrayed and more than a little bit angry at myself. I felt as if I had been shot through the heart by all of the false promises that "Sex" offered. That sting still hurts I feel some relief that my oldest daughter watched "Sex" for the clothes, and that my youngest had thought it was "stupid". As for myself, I had wasted far too much time and energy invested on some soulless women. At the end of the day, as least as the show's writers would have us believe, a woman can only be defined by a man. Happy Valentine's Day to you, to those of you who brought to life the Carries and Samanthas and yes, even the Chalottes and Mirandas of the small screen. We would have been better off without them...