After dodging spoilers and rumors all morning — feeling a little bit like Catherine Zeta-Jones weaving herself between a trellis of security laser beams in Entrapment — I finally sat down to watch And Just Like That…
I’m not going to lie: My excitement was through the roof. Yes, that’s despite the fact that I’ve been burned by disappointing reboots before. (Looking at you, Gilmore Girls). How can I not be thrilled? Sex and The City, a cultural touchstone, has always had a special place in my heart.
Carrie is a writer. (Hello, that’s me, even though the closest I got to writing about sex was that one time, during a stint as a wellness writer, I wrote a column about sleep.) But she’s also a die-hard fashionista, which she almost uses as means of self-expression and a release valve for the challenges and life hurdles she encounters throughout the show. Many things to relate to, as you can see.
Most importantly, however, there’s the “city” part, which is central to the series. One of the most soul-warming, satisfying things about the show was the way it incorporated New York City as a part of the narrative. For a lot of viewers who don’t live in New York — and I’m sure, for even those who do — the episodes felt like a bit of an escape. I, too, wanted to slip into a pair of Manolos, leave my apartment, hail a cab and spend the afternoon gallivanting all over town. Sex and The City truly gave us that lifestyle porn we desperately needed.