And just like that . . .

Mz. Taylor, serious look

Carrie was gone

The news caught us by surprise: And Just Like That . . . the ladies would no longer be strutting down the sidewalks of New York. Clutching my pearls in shock, I had to set my Cosmo down for fear of wasting, I mean spilling my cherished cocktail. Ms. Carrie Bradshaw, a cultural Icon of twenty plus years, my muse, my inspiration, the reason why I had a growing collection of stunning, yet cheaper stilettos in my closet would no longer be a part of my life. As a tear elegantly trickled down my face, I couldn’t help but worry about Ms. Carry.  Would her new book become a bestseller? Will Charolotte and Harry’s sex life fully return? What will Anthony and Giuseppe’s wedding be like? And would Lisa Todd Wexley ever finish her documentary on important black women? While these and other questions bounced around my head, I eagerly devoured the last few episodes with sadness, hope and wonderment. As I watched Carrie return to her new flat, after the chaotic Friendsgiving at Miranda’s, and walk from room to room, pondering her new, single life, I couldn’t help but reminisce about the show myself.

               We first met the fabulous fearsome foursome (Say that quickly) some twenty years ago. Carrie was a young, carefree writer who had an expensive shoe fetish, a string of underwhelming boyfriends, a love of Cosmos, and obviously lived beyond her means. (Just how could she afford a closet full of Manolo’s and a cute walk-up brownstone in Manhattan on a writer’s salary?) Charlotte was the constant optimist always looking at the bright side of every dating scenario. Miranda, the cynical, control freak lawyer who dealt with life and dating as if both were cases she had to win in court: just the logical facts please. Then there was Samatha. Perpetually single, strong, determined, and handled her sex life like most men; she slept with whomever she wanted and didn’t feel guilty for doing so. After all, if men could do it, why couldn’t she!

They were a part of our life for six years and two movies. Countless fans, like myself, tuned in weekly to join our ladies on their quest for love. Cosmos where consumed, gay bars held watch parties, and many of us tried to decide which of the ladies we were most alike: the optimists were Charlotte, the cynics Miranda, the majority of gay men definitely  were Samantha, and the Carries; we lived beyond our means, had an expanding shoe collection, and waffled back and forth between men who weren’t the right match. We saw the ladies through countless relationships, a few heart breaks, bad hairstyles, and some questionable fashion choices. We rejoiced when Steve and Miranda had a baby and wept when Miranda’s water breaking destroyed Carrie’s shoes. We struggled through Charlotte’s marriage to Trey and rejoiced when she found the not so perfect, but loving Harry. We cried with Samantha during her breast cancer and rejoiced when she recovered. We witnessed Carrie’s on again off again relationship with Big and Aiden. Felt bridal bliss as Carrie modeled countless designer wedding gowns for the infamous Vogue shoot and cried when Big jilted her at the altar. They lived the life we wished we could. They were the fun, sexy, exciting friends we longed to have. And then just like that, they vanished from our lives.

Then years later, on an overcast winter day, came news that would lift fans out of their pandemic blues: our beloved ladies would once again strut down the sidewalks of New York. The news of their return was greeted with the clinking of martini glasses; fans rejoiced as the clickity clack of their stilettos would once again be music to our ears. And Just Like That. . . Carrie and friends were back. I, like other fans, eagerly awaited their return. Was Miranda still a kick ass lawyer? How was Charlotte and Harry doing? And, most importantly, what was the state of Carrie and Big’s marriage? When we last saw them, Carrie had once again been bewildered by the undazzling Aidan. Throughout that summer we eagerly consumed all tidbits we could get our well-manicured nails on: snap shots of table reads, news of new cast members, and clips of the first and last day of shooting. While plot lines were secret, one thing was certain: Samantha Jones would not be returning, due to Kim Catrell’s one-sided spat with Sara Jessica Parker. Then the day arrived! With Cosmo in hand, I sashayed into my living room, pointed my remote toward the TV, and rejoiced as a familiar song once again graced my airwaves. For the next forty minutes I watched in awe as the ladies caught us up on their lives. Charlotte was still happily married, Miranda was going through a mid-life crisis; her marriage to Steve was on the rocks, again. Samantha disappeared to London. And our favorite columnist and hoarder of expensive shoes was a widow by the end of the first episode. (And those infamous blue Manolos were toast.)

As the music faded during the end credits, the criticism began. Devout audience members loved it, Samantha Jones fans hated it, and others like myself, struggled to love or to hate it. From week to week, and season to season, I dutifully watched, in the hope that it would make sense. I found myself loving one episode, hating the next, confused by another, and then finally getting into the grove, only to be lost in the next episode. I would often find myself downing my Cosmo and shouting at the TV, “Who let this happen?!” Miranda a lesbian? Couldn’t they have just had her and Steve split? Che Diaz, one of the worst characters in sitcom history. What was Lisa Todd’s documentary about? And why couldn’t we have had more Anthony?  And seriously, Aidan again! Talk about emotional whiplash. And sadly the only thing that made sense was Carrie being a widow. I mean if she was happily married what would the purpose of show be?  And then just like that, it ended. Carrie left us once again.

It's been a few weeks since we last saw Carrie wandering from room to room in her Gramercy Park house, and I still find myself at a loss after her departure. It’s hard to say goodbye to an old friend like Carrie. As I look around my new place and ponder design schemes and what life will be like in my new city, I find myself thinking about Carrie and what happened to the new show. News of their return was welcomed by fans, and we happily looked forward to the comfort and familiarity they provided, especially at a time when we needed it the most: emerging into a new post-pandemic world. We were looking forward to the Manolos, the Cosmos, and the sex we saw during the SITC days. When our ladies arrived, they weren’t who we remembered them to be. Our ladies had evolved. This wasn’t the Sex and the City where the pursuit of love and shoes was at the center of every episode. Instead, our beloved ladies had to navigate life in their fifties. The sex, the glamour, and Carrie’s iconic witty voice-over—were gone. What happened was that our beloved ladies had changed, and it became apparent that the audience was not on board with these changes. Fans wanted the old Sex and the City, not the new one. Yet if the ladies were still the same as they were in the SITC days, would the show still have been as hated as it was? Or would fans have complained that the ladies hadn’t changed?

With And Just Like That, we learned that change is an inevitable part of life, even for our beloved stiletto wearing ladies. They were now facing real life challenges. Miranda was discovering her sexuality and fighting alcoholism. Charlotte was trying to wrangle her kids and let them become who they are supposed to be without losing her sanity. Carrie—queen of expensive shoes and questionable decisions—was learning how to be single and fabulous again, this time as a widow. Gone were the days of designer shopping sprees and disastrous dates; now, we had grown-up problems: kids, careers, existential crises, and whatever Che Diaz was supposed to be. Sure, some episodes were cringe worthy and confusing, but I couldn’t help but appreciate the wild ride for what it was about: change. Carrie helped reignite my own passion for writing—maybe I can fill the void she left with my own voice overs! Ultimately, the ladies showed us a part of life we are reluctant to accept: what we once loved will, at some point, change. The choice then becomes ours—we can adapt and grow along with it, or we can cling to the past, resisting what is inevitable?

               And Just Like That . . . I boldly step into the unknow of a new city, as Carrie has shown us, nothing stays the same.