Like many gals on this Memorial weekend, some girlfriends and I hoofed it down to the Cineplex to see SATC2. I had been widely and wisely advised not to get my hopes up, but of course, I went and did anyway only to leave thinking: Why was that so awkward and boring? The simple reason is that they ran out of plot and filled the hole with canned jokes, hokey cultural clichés, and oodles of fashion. But my real problem, I realized over cocktails later, was that in the wake of reading Marry Him, I couldn’t stop thinking about how ridiculous Carrie’s expectations are. And, like Carrie who misses her former self in the movie, I missed my former self who identified with Carrie.
I, too, used to be afraid that life stopped after marriage. I used to dread that the huz and I would silently sip Cabernet listening to each other chew and the clock tick. It’s a common fear for our generation of women who according to Lori Gottlieb’s interviews want “anything but boring.” I get it. I feared it. And then something magical happened—I got the fuck over myself. In my experience, while some of adulthood is indeed boring, it seems to have little to do with marriage and more with, well, life. In practice, my man and I don’t even get to eat dinner together all that much so a stolen evening of take-out in front of the TV, much less my husband making me Osso Buco, sounds a lot like marital bliss.
“But it’s a movie!” a friend said to me after hearing my gripes, “It’s like Disneyland for adults.” And it was. Except that it was less like hurtling through Space Mountain and more like listening to kids in line whine. Within the first twenty minutes I was so sick of watching Carrie’s naval gazing that I wanted to jump up in my seat and say: Learn to cook!! Volunteer!! Find something better on TV!!!
So for me it’s, sigh, the end of an era. My old self will miss you, Carrie but the huz won’t. Nope, pas de tout—he always thought you were a selfish megalomaniac.