Yahoo Sports 10 Lies Sex and the City Told Me About Living in New York City
Carrie Bradshaw, you let us all down.
Officially, Sex and the City‘s Carrie was a sex columnist. Unofficially, she was the face of the New York Division of Tourism. She sold us a city and a dream like her rent depended on it. (Maybe it did, actually, as a writer living in that apartment.)
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In Carrie’s New York, money was no object, men were abundant and almost always hot (rarely creepy), and hangovers were something of lore. During the HBO series’ six-season run, she seduced us with the fantasy that Manhattan was an adult playground meant to be traversed in candy-colored stilettos. But in reality, Manhattan is living paycheck-to-paycheck so that you can roam garbage-laden sidewalks and grab greasy subway rails in pursuit of what Carrie promised, with no assurance that you’ll ever find it.
Since today marks 25 years since the show’s debut, enough time has passed to look back at the series and be honest about what it was: a dirty, filthy (but yes, fun) lie! Don’t believe me? I’ve rounded up all the ways Carrie and her cronies — Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha — constructed a New York City out of myths, falsehoods and contagious delusions.
Scroll through Sex and the City‘s biggest lies, then let us know in the comments: In your opinion, which misrepresentation of life in New York City was the most egregious?
Walking four to a sidewalk is fine! No one will care at all!
These streets are simply not wide enough for Carrie and her fantasies PLUS three additional warm bodies. You shouldn’t even consider venturing outdoors in the Big Apple with more than one other person. If you do risk it all and decide to take up the width of the walkway, prepare to receive exasperated eye-rolls and muttered obscenities.
A sex writer and her three friends can just mosey their way into the Yankees locker room after a big game.
Season 2, Episode 1 was a confusing one. How could a lowly sex columnist so easily saunter into a post-game locker room? And, if Carrie had a press pass all along, wouldn’t they have had better seats? Even if we do believe in the impossible, how would she be permitted to bring along her three friends? Lies!
Cosmopolitans should be consumed with abandon.
The women downed cosmo after cosmo throughout the entire series. Beside the fact that they never got hangovers, my main qualm is this: Cosmopolitans are the least cosmopolitan drink there is. New York City isn’t the kind of place where one just lounges around sipping on a chilled martini glass filled to the brim with something pink — save that for Florida. In this concrete jungle, the elitists among us opt for the dirty martini or even a spritz. The cosmo? She’s dead.
Manolo Blahniks are for everyday wear!
No one wears Manolo Blahniks, and if they do, they’re such a clueless Carrie. With rats and roaches running rampant, who wants a strappy heel? The full coverage of a sneaker is key. In fact, these days, Manolos have nearly gone extinct. But rumor does have it that if you stand in Grand Central Station at midnight, you can still hear the overpriced clickety-clack of a Manolo chasing after Mr. Big.
Throwing a Filet-O-Fish at a man will not jeopardize your chance at love.
In Season 2, Episode 12, a beret-clad Carrie arrived unannounced at Mr. Big’s apartment with McDonalds in an attempt to seduce him. Realistically, a French accent and a greasy sandwich get you nowhere in a city where a chopped cheese is around every corner. The couple ultimately got into a fight, causing Carrie to throw a fish sandwich across the room. Though the incident was but a blip in the timeline of Carrie and Big’s relationship, allow me to assure you: Such flippant filet flinging will hinder your chance at love in a city where there are plenty of other fish in the sea.
Getting dumped with a Post-It note is bad.
I pray, hope and yearn that I could be so lucky as to be dumped by a Post-It note. A more cruel New York City dumping? Blocking your number and ghosting you on all social media apps (including LinkedIn, because a Young Financier covers all his bases). Then one day, many days after the initial onset of the ghost, you run into each other on a Tuesday morning while piling into a local train. What’s worse than locking eyes with your ghost in an enclosed space that starts and stops with a jolt every two minutes? Where do you look if not into his eyes while dodging an unruly child in a unicorn horn and mermaid’s tail? I’ll take the Post-It, please.
City women are not people.
In the SATC universe, the women who inhabit the city are hollow, one-dimensional imitations of people. According to the series, a metropolitan woman only has time to care about one thing. Miranda cares only about her career, Charlotte cares only about love, Samantha cares only about sex and Carrie cares only about herself. They’re so one-dimensional even their friendships don’t make sense — remember Carrie’s bullsh–t bagels in Season 4, Episode 7?
Everything outside of the city is a hellhole.
We all have our own versions of hell. Carrie’s personal hellscape? Suffern, NY. Her reaction in Season 4, Episode 9 to Aidan’s country home was a little extreme in regard to a village whose website touts events as benign as “Storytime at the Gazebo” and a community tree lighting. If this were Gilmore Girls, Suffern would be a dream! Anyone who lives in the concrete jungle knows: If you have the opportunity to enjoy some greenery, even if just for a day, it’s a gift!
Not-hot guys are only good after you’ve exhausted the hot ones.
Season after season, the entire group of women dated immature man-babies. (Remember Season 3’s Wade?) Why? Well, they were hot, of course! But six-pack abs don’t necessarily nurture intimacy, as Charlotte soon discovered after marrying Trey in Season 3. Only after that relationship went nowhere did she settle on Harry, though she still tried (and failed) to change him to better suit her image. In a similar vein, Miranda struggled with her attraction to Steve because his career wasn’t as prestigious as hers. As for the rest of the women? They’re still out here chasing bricks — hot, rigid men with as much personality as a crumbly red block.
Publishing frothy essays is enough to earn a living.
No writer living in Manhattan could have afforded Carrie’s apartment. How many rooms even were there? Plus, the woman had enough furniture to reenact Beauty and the Beast’s “Be Our Guest.” And that walk-in closet? In our dreams! I couldn’t help but wonder: Realistically, wasn’t the only place Carrie could have afforded to live an economy unit at CubeSmart Self Storage?
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