. . . with a cherry on top.

I just got home from the movie theatre. My girlfriend and I took the opening-weekend plunge and caught an afternoon showing of Sex and the City. Despite the pans from various industry reviews, we both left the theater pleased as punch — and a little cramped. We sat in the second row staring up at the screen and watching the phenomenon that put high-fashion on the lips of middle America for two-plus hours. 

I’ve always watched SATC, but I have never, I repeat never, identified myself with any of the four ladies — Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte. I do not take magazines quizzes like, “Which SATC character are you most like?” Nor would you catch me reading the SATC Guide before the movie, like the two fanatics in the row behind me so dutifully perused before the show. The cult following behind the HBO series leaves me severely jaded, and when anyone pontificates about an episode, I immediately lose interest.

And yet, I am hypocrite, because as I spent the afternoon among a sold-out audience of designer handbag-toting, high-heel wearing, Carrie Bradshaw empathizers, I too, willingly indulged my inner girlfriend and loved every minute of it. The writers wrap up every loose end from the series and present it to fans in a pretty little package, tied with a fashion-filled ribbon. And by the end of the film, after crying on more than four occasions, laughing hysterically, and wishing out loud that Carrie would just marry Big already, I immediately thought, I can’t wait to see this again. 

Think you knew everything about SATC? Read this.

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