Warning: This post contains spoilers.
And just like that … I was heartbroken.
I had my cosmo ready, my old 80s leopard bag out and my Carrie Bradshaw pin (a recent purchase from Sarah Jessica Parker’s own fashion line) standing by. I had scheduled a date with my fiancé to watch the first two episodes of “And Just Like That…,” the new “Sex and the City” reboot. I was jazzed. I had been counting the days until it was released.
This was my show. I don’t have many, but I had been waiting for this one, like so many of you. I’ve watched every “Sex and the City” episode numerous times and have seen both movies too many times to count. This was my story in a script. My messy dating life in a series. Nearly 30 years of dating (mine and Carrie’s) wrapped into something I could watch and relate to … and laugh and cry with.
After not seeing these characters for a decade, I was so excited to be with them again. I had never been so invested in a scripted show. I felt like I knew these characters. I know it’s fictional, but I couldn’t wait to see Carrie and Mr. Big’s love affair, how the show would write off Kim Cattrall’s character and of course, the fashion.
And then it happened: Mr. Big died.
I was actually surprised by my reaction. I was crying hysterically in my fiancé’s arms, and that’s not an exaggeration. It’s a television show. How could I be so angry and feel so betrayed? I said to myself, “Am I really this furious over a fictional character?” I was. I was screaming at the TV: “Call 911! Call 911! Why isn’t she calling 911?” It didn’t make sense to me. Why would they do this to us?
Days later, after talking about this with so many people, I realize why I was — and still am — so upset.
Any fan of the show identifies with a character. People always ask, “Are you a Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte or (at least, back then) Samantha?” I identify with Carrie. I met my Mr. Big, my now-fiancé, in my 40s. We got engaged, we broke off our engagement and then got back together. I love fairy tales. I guess that’s what I was looking for in the reboot: a fairy tale. I felt like the show owed it to us to see Carrie happy. When Mr. Big died, it was a punch in the stomach.
I felt justified being mad — and still do (even though I realize how stupid it sounds to be so heated about a TV show with everything else going on in the world). But this was supposed to be an escape. I had never had such a visceral reaction to a television show in my life. After analyzing why I felt that way, I realized the reason is much deeper than Mr. Big dying.
Carrie single in the city again seems exhausting. I've already lived that version.
Carrie single in the city again seems exhausting. I’ve already lived that version, and I guess I was looking for happy in this one.
I am still hoping Carrie wakes up and it was all a dream and she is cozy with Mr. Big in their fabulous apartment sipping incredible wine. I am doubtful that will happen. In fact, I heard for sure it doesn’t. Maybe they’ll give us a glimpse of what could have happened if Mr. Big and Carrie skipped the recital and went to the Hamptons as they’d planned and live happily ever after, à la “Sliding Doors,” one of my favorite Gwyneth Paltrow movies.
So … I got it off my chest. I needed to vent, but I also wanted to say to those single girls out there in their 40s and 50s looking for love: the fairy tale still exists. It may not have happened for Carrie (at least, not this time around), but I know it’s true. There is still plenty of time for a happy ending.