I may alienate my girl readership when I say this, but I’m going to say it anyway: I am not Carrie Bradshaw.
Sometimes, while out sipping cocktails with the select few confidants who actually know about this anonymous column - with a Cosmo in one hand, light cigarette in the other - they begin to compare my real, clandestine, London-based column to that fake, brash NYC-based one: Sex and the City. And then I lose it. Let me explain.
Carrie Bradshaw is a flake and an airhead. She 'tackles' her Big Apple with oversized tutu skirts, girlish flirts, and embarrassing dates with perverts. Throughout the series, it is unclear to us viewers whether her wobbly sense of self will be crushed in her unaffordable £400 Manolo Blahniks, but we can be certain that she will stomp all over the hard-won achievements of real City Girls, and the sisterhood in general.
As City Girls, we want to look sexy both at work and play. But when Carrie isn’t dressed like a flamingo or other bird of prey, her micro-skirts qualify as costumes for the Cabaret. Because real banking ladies wouldn’t be caught dead in Carrie’s 'lady of the night' threads, her fashion-victim vanities are light years removed from our conservative Square Mile realities.
And let’s not forget the most damning aspect of Carrie’s flibbertigibbet persona: her lack of self-respect. Real City Girls don’t have time for City Boy jerks - despite their attractive perks. But no matter how many times Mr. Big dumps Carrie, she always returns, tail between her legs, like a little puppy dog. Eventually, Big leaves her dramatically at the altar. She throws her flowers at him. You think for a moment she may stick up for herself, saying goodbye at last to this toxic player. But alas, she goes back to him one last time, marrying him WITHOUT a Vivienne Westwood dress, in the NYC courthouse. The warped message to impressionable City (and non-City) Girls is crystal-clear: it doesn’t matter how poorly a guy treats you, you should always go back, and you’ll be together in the end - although you will more than likely be in your mid-40s, infertile, and wrinkled. In Carrie’s glamorous 'City', true love becomes truly humiliating.
City Girls are not flighty, spendthrift or emotionally labile. Carrie’s bird-brain would be crushed the second she stepped into our City hawk territory (though she would find plenty of Big Birds to string her along romantically for years).
City Girls are true warriors with muscle. We don’t need Carrie in our sexy City. We need a warrior princess.
I’ll volunteer first.