How to Keep Calm and Carrie On

(It was only a matter of time before I wrote about Sex and the City)

My well-loved stack of Sex and the City DVDs.

They say that time is the wisest counselor of all, but I would argue my wisest counselor has been Sex and the City. And because I’ve devoted so much time to watching the full series—over and over and over—I’ve been counseled on the vicissitudes of life (and the fashion trends from the turn of the 21^st century) more than most. Despite my close study, there are still times when the series surprises me, when it will catch me off guard—like a bus dousing me with puddle water—and impart some new life lesson.

Every December since the film’s release in 2008, I watch Sex and the City: The Movie. There’s something about Sarah Jessica Parker running through the snowy streets of Manhattan on New Year’s Eve, as The Cast’s version of “Auld Lang Syne” plays, that makes my heart open wider than Samantha’s bedroom door. In the scene, Parker’s character, Carrie Bradshaw, is racing to get to her friend Miranda’s apartment so that Miranda doesn’t have to ring in the new year alone. This last viewing, as I lifted my tear-filled eyes from my laptop and gazed out the window with a pensive expression, I couldn’t help but wonder: Has the title of the series misled audiences for the last quarter of a century? (And shit, am I that old??) These characters have sex, yes. In the city. But the emotional core of the show has never been about men or urban life. It’s about something far more consequential.

The movie’s plot hinges on the fallout of Carrie and Big’s wedding flop. Carrie’s heart gets flattened (like that mouse under the frying pan in season 6, episode 16) when Big’s cold feet prevent him from making an appearance at their lavish Manhattan wedding. The remainder of the movie follows Carrie through the next year, as her friends help her find the will to live—and shop—again.

Even though I’ve seen this movie at least 16 times, I still get teary-eyed when Carrie runs to Miranda’s apartment on New Year’s Eve. This last viewing, though, I cried harder. Probably because it was a particularly trying end to an already difficult year. Probably because my beloved cat had just died, and I was still in the depths of my grief. Likely, though, it was because I understood more than ever the power of friends showing up at your front stoop to help shoulder some of the heaviness of life—and I don’t just mean shopping bags.

As a tribute to our late cat, Crumpet, my husband and I published Crum & B, a storybook to help offset the costs of his medical bills. Our friends at Two Plum Press helped to bring the project into the world, and we’ve been beyond grateful for the outpouring of support since we lost our buddy. Allow me to paint a moving montage: pie delivered to our door, cat coasters, a round of drinks, an impromptu neck massage, a magnificent care package, sympathy cards, and a framed photo of me and Crumpet. Friends have been there with me as I cried in public over pho, cried in public over pizza, cried in public over ramen, cried in public over breakfast at a place that was not Tiffany’s. Friends have texted me or delivered voice memos—sending love, checking in.

No one spoon-fed me breakfast—like Samantha does for Carrie in the movie—though I’m certain my friends would have if I’d acted more like an adult-sized baby.

This last viewing of Sex and the City: The Movie, I listened to the director’s commentary. Post wedding, the girls fly with Carrie to Mexico and take turns tending to her basic human needs. They make sure she is sleeping, eating, and occasionally getting out of bed to go lay down on a different horizontal surface outdoors. Dubbed over this section of the movie is the director’s take: “. . . it’s sort of like an instructional video on how to be a friend. When something bad happens to someone, you let them experience it—until it’s time to move them along . . .”

You hold space for them to talk, to cry, to be not quite themselves. You applaud when they attempt humor again. When they make the rash decision to dye their hair a color that doesn’t quite suit their complexion (like Carrie does not long after returning from Mexico), you tell them they look gorgeous.

A couple of weeks ago, some neighbor friends spontaneously invited me on a vacation to Mexico. We would be a group of four women. We would wear fabulous hats and talk about sex. To decline would have been sacrilegious to the altar I’ve been worshipping at since I was 18.

I was not the only one on this Mexico trip who was hurting and healing from a loss, and so the tone of the vacation was gentle, light. We drank more hibiscus tea than Tecate. We braided one another’s hair and massaged oil into our sunburns. We lounged in hammocks, bird watched, and parroted affirmations like: “Your hair looks amazing” and “Love the fit.”

At the beginning of Carrie’s “Mexi-coma,” she asks Miranda whether she’ll ever laugh again, and Miranda says, yes, “When something is really, really funny.”

Then, because the writers of Sex and the City are not above potty humor, Charlotte gets a stomach bug and “pougheepsies” her pants. And just like that, Carrie let’s out a full-throated laugh. (Fun fact: the actors were drinking real margaritas during the filming of this scene so that Sarah Jessica Parker’s laugh would be more authentic.)

Fortunately for our foursome, none of us shat ourselves on vacation, but there did come a moment at the airport when we were getting ready to say hasta luego to Mexico that something really, really funny happened, and we laughed harder than we had in a while.

I returned home feeling a little lighter, some of my energy restored. The grief still hurts. I still wake up crying some mornings and cry myself to sleep some evenings. I feel my cat’s absence acutely. The fact is, I lost a dear friend. In the immediate aftermath of his death, I was barely able to get out of bed, to feed myself, to get dressed, or to leave the house.

That’s why, this past December, when I watched Carrie run through the icy streets of Manhattan on New Year’s Eve, I began to weep. This movie is a masterpiece, I thought with the kind of conviction that can be a slippery slope for wannabe cult leaders. There are plenty of movie critics (mostly men) on Rotten Tomatoes who would disagree with me. “Here is an unashamed celebration of materialist values, an orgy of labels, brands and product placements as sinful, by implication, as the behaviour of the characters,” says Evan.

No one’s going to argue with some of your points, Evan. The franchise is, by design, “an orgy of labels.” But to call the behavior of the characters “sinful” is a Brooklyn bridge too far. Without question, there are problematic aspects of this 2008 movie—fat-phobia, off-color humor, gentrification, implicit racism—that cannot be redeemed or defended. However, if you cut through all the clutter, the New Year’s Eve scene lays bare the heart of the franchise, and it is holier than the pope’s fabulous hat.

Mega-fans like me don’t return to Sex and the City for the fashion or the fucking (though those elements are entertaining). We come back for the power of friendship.

Whoa, whoa . . . deep thoughts there, Dev. Okay, but bear with me.

The New Year’s Eve scene is the emotional turning point of the movie. It’s the moment when we see that Carrie has done enough post-breakup sulking and redecorating to dust off her finest sequin hat, fur coat, and high heels, and charge onto the ice-slick sidewalks of Manhattan. The scene is proof that Carrie is now strong enough to rise to the occasion for a friend in need. It’s a simple act; she must face some minor inconveniences—putting on shoes, being cold, getting on the subway, staying up past her bedtime—but anyone who has been the recipient of this kind of love knows how life-saving it can feel.

“Ridiculous and regressive,” says Bill on Rotten Tomatoes. But what is saner than investing in the very relationships that are most likely to endure for a lifetime? And what is more progressive than divesting from the insular priorities of domestic partnership and expanding outward into our greater communities?

Soon—sooner than we would like—we need to stop sulking over the election results and dust off our finest, bravest selves. We need to warm up for some serious distance running (much farther than a few Manhattan blocks). Our hearts are broken, yes, but if we’re ever going to heal from this bad relationship, we need to turn towards the people who would run in heels for us. I’ve written about ways to do this in more detail here.

It’s been especially chilly in Portland this week, even nippier than episode 6 from season 4. That said, if one of my neighbor friends called me near midnight because they needed something—a cup of sugar, a headlamp during a blackout, some company—I now feel confident that I could muster the resolve to throw on a coat and sensible shoes and run to their side.

And maybe this kind of small, local deed doesn’t sound particularly grand or noteworthy. But is there any greater political act than showing up when it matters most?