“You and I…nothing.” Those were the words that echoed throughout Manhattan. Off of steel barstools and worn leather chairs, off of overpriced coffees and near-finished cocktails. They skidded through Central Park and bounced off of the Empire State Building, danced over dirty sidewalks laden with salted peanuts and lipstick-stained cigarettes, touched on stilettoed Manolo Blahniks and satin Jimmy Choos. They weaved and darted and sank and flew, and finally, after cab rides and busy streets and moments spent in cold, winter air, they found four girls sitting at a table for drinks.
The story was recounted, retold, and reexamined. He does this every time. Does he have some sort of radar? Does he sense that after days, months, maybe even years, you’re finally okay? Finally happy? Does he truly miss you, or does he simply crave you? Is it you he really wants, or just someone to hold when the sleepless nights finally become unbearable?
After drinks and an early dinner, after rehashing the six years of never changing, after thinking of her future, Carrie Bradshaw left Mr. Big behind and boarded a plane to Paris. He was the ex everyone hated, the asshole they told her to forget, the man who would never change–and so she left, never to look back again.
For 93 episodes, “Sex and the City” was inspirational. It was real. It was independent, motivational, chic, sexy, hilarious. It was thought-provoking and it showed us–this wannabe Cosmo-drinking, nicotine-addicted, designer-clad generation–that we could be (and do) anything we wanted. We learned that women could be influential and commanding, and that being a bitch is more than okay. We learned that sex was power and power was money and money was sex. We soaked in the language, the haircuts, and the motherfucking power walks. We wanted to love ‘em and leave ‘em, and we knew better than to expect a man to save us.
And in the 94th episode, all of that–everything we learned–was shot to shit. In the 94th episode, we, the wannabe Cosmo-drinking, nicotine-addicted, designer-clad generation, decided that maybe we didn’t need the company credit cards or the power suits or the independence. Maybe we didn’t want to love ‘em and leave ‘em. And maybe, just maybe, we actually didn’t know better than to expect a man to save us. Big saved Carrie. Why couldn’t he save us?
And so we did. If Carrie did it, so could we.
We waited for things to change, waited for things to get better. We waited for answers and apologies and absolutions that, quite frankly, never came. We waited for happy endings, Prince Charming, and a penthouse apartment filled with designer shoes–but we never got it. “Sex and the City” lied: love does not conquer all, shoes will never stretch, and men do not change. For 93 episodes, we were taught to be smart, successful women. With the 94th, we became believers in fairytales. Unfortunately for us, fairytales don’t come true.