I'm a little paranoid to say it, but I was a huge fan of the HBO series Sex And The City. Along with The Sopranos, the show--especially the earlier years--was on the must-watch list for Mrs. Film Geek and me. We planned our Sundays around it, and it rarely disappointed.
Mostly, I dug the show because of my serious crush on Carrie Bradshaw, the lead character. That I had a crush or her was well know, although often tempered by Mrs. Film Geek's retort: "The crush is sorta sweet. But to be honest, if you found yourself alone in a bar with Carrie, ...well, you know she wouldn't talk to you, don't you?" We'd laugh, but in my head, I'd think:
"Oh, she'd talk to me, baby. She'd do some talkin'!"
Although I loved the show, I always felt a little uncomfortable around my guy friends saying so. They often made fun of their wives or girl friends for being so faithful to that "chick show on the home box," which several talked about while flipping the channel between an NFL game and whatever race Dale, Jr. was in that weekend. In between yelling at the refs, I was secretly counting down the hours until later that night, when the cool theme song of Sex And The City would lull me into my secret nirvana.
Despite my love for the show, I had misgivings about seeing the flick in theaters. Going up to the box office window, standing behind dozens of women wearing high priced shoes and Carrie Bradshaw-inspired fashion and ordering out loud: "Two, for Sex, please" seemed sorta strange.
So, I [ahem] downloaded a copy off the Internet, and watched it at home.
As we watched the movie on my laptop, I felt sort of sad. It didnt have the same feel as the HBO series. Like the TV show, the movie Sex And The City had a central theme that played out in the lives of all the female characters. But something about the movie was strangely different.
The intimacy of the original TV show, which played a significant role in why people were drawn to it, wasn't there. It's harder to connect with an over-sized Carried Bradshaw and Company. And while watching the fem-gang iron out their problems in an hour each week seems acceptable, watching them whine and complain about a single problem for over two hours is just overkill.
It's like having relatives over for dinner, and then they just won't leave.
So, it's probably true that Carrie Bradshaw wouldn't talk to me in a bar. I know it. (And deep down, even though we've never met, you know it too.) But that's OK. Like my love for the TV show my fantasy was just a thing, something untrue and, as a result, bound to pass in time.
Fantasy has it's place, of course; but I never tire of my real-life love and best friend.
(I just hope Mrs. Film Geek doesn't get into trouble because I [ahem] downloaded the movie for free on her laptop.)