Recently I seem to have developed a rather worrying and shameful habit.
I think I have become addicted to Sex and the City.
As you can read here, I was a late starter when it came to Carrie and her oh-so-stylish chums, and have always felt slightly guilty about watching, but lately, thanks to Sky+, I have been making up for lost time, to the point where it’s almost a daily fix.
I feel guilty on two levels. Firstly, it’s television generally. I really want to be one of those people who claims to find TV dull, who doesn’t have a set in the house, and who spends their evenings reading classical literature and discussing politics over fine ports with their equally high-brow friend. Or even a lovely, floaty creative type who prefers to spend their weekends pottering in the garden amongst the reclaimed tin baths, or sketching pictures of their cat, but I’m just not.
I like watching television.
Given a day to myself I would quite happily spend the whole afternoon eating crisps and watching sappy rom coms or back to back Come Dine With Me.
As if that weren’t bad enough…
Then there is the programme itself. Sex and the City epitomises everything I try so hard not to believe in – the idea that we always need a man in our lives to feel complete, that shoes equal happiness, or that a cocktail is the answer to everything. Although actually I do believe that last one.
Watching it makes me feel slighty dirty.
Part of it is envy. My life is pretty much the opposite of a single New Yorker, and there are times when the idea of living alone in a cute apartment, attending fabulous parties and taking late night calls from sexy, rich bankers has a certain allure.
The reality of course is that if I had all that, I’d probably wish I was at home with Come Dine With Me and the crisps.
I also fall into that classic trap of imagining which of the women I am most like. In my head I am a combination of the best bits of Miranda and Carrie – independent, sexy, creative and intelligent. In truth, I fear I may be more like the worst bits of Samantha and Charlotte – hopelessly romantic, oftentimes naive, slightly slutty, with a habit of talking loudly and inappropriately in restaurants.
So what is it really about the programme that appeals? Is it a genuine affection for the characters, or a shallow coveting of their seemingly enviable lives and glamorous wardrobes?
I couldn’t help but wonder as I watched last night… is this love, or simply Sex and the City lust?
Photo credit – Kenny Hindgren