It took a Sex and the City rewatch to make our Girlo notice the similarities.
Last weekend while I was on the ‘I have €22.50 to my name and need to make it last until Wednesday’ diet, I was scrolling through Netflix endlessly (well, for at least 10 minutes anyway) when I decided I was going to embark on a quest like no other. I was about to take part in an emotional rollercoaster knowing full well I would be going from fits of rage and floods of tears with LOLs and cringeworthy flashbacks in between…
Huns, I decided I was going to re-watch every single episode of Sex and The City. I haven’t done this in about three years and the last time I did was after a really bad breakup (insert ‘I haven’t had a fella in actual years’ relationship status here) to try reaffirm my faith in men, telling myself MY Mr Big is out there somewhere, while praying to little 8lb 6 ounce infant baby Jesus that I hadn’t already met him and it wasn’t gonna take five or six attempts at a relationship for him to actually commit.
My number one Hun always tells me I’m Samantha – independent, confident, mad for the ride and always doing mad shit with/to blokes when I actually get it. But there is no doubt in my mind that I am a Carrie. With my little monthly column talking about being mind-f*cked to bits, and pining over a man a good few years my senior who loves me one day and doesn’t give me the time of day the next. I change my hair every year and then I revert back to my staple long blonde locks, and I’ve had many a questionable wardrobe choice. Throw in the fact that I am a needy bastard and love to talk about myself all the live long day and we may as well be twins.
As I lay there in my Hello Kitty PJs eating Koka Noodles for the sixth time that week, watching the girls get the ride not a bleeding bother to them, I couldn’t help but notice the similarities between 1998 Manhattan and 2018 Dublin.
Louis Vuitton is our Manolo Blahnik
Carrie wouldn’t be seen walking up the road without wearing them or carrying the shopping bag around to show off the fact that she can afford them. And now half the Huns in Dublin can’t post a pic on social media without squeezing their LV bag in somewhere.
The rent crisis
You can’t help but wonder in a place as crowded as NYC how Carrie has an apartment with a walk-in wardrobe and how they managed to squeeze that wardrobe into such a small place. In Dublin the wardrobe alone would be on Daft for €650 a month with two single beds squeezed into it.
Every street is flooded with them, light on to let you know they can take a fare but none stop. Is it
the Meat Packing District or is it George’s St?
Models and mortals
In the first season there is an episode about blokes who only sleep with models which reminded me of a couple of blokes I know who try to get stuck into girls with a big social media following. Now I don’t know if it’s because they have followers, or if it’s because they are great looking which has led to them having all these followers, but are the influencizers our modelizers?
Now I’m not saying we are behind 20 years behind the States – far f*cking from it. But as I watched Carrie sleep with mistake after mistake and waste so much time on men who it was going nowhere with, I couldn’t help but see our similarities and absolutely shit myself.
I’m telling yiz now Huns, if I have to wait until I’m hitting 40 to find someone who is willing to put up with me, there will be murder. So I am back on Tinder even though I am having sex with someone I know isn’t the one for me but is so good in bed I just can’t stop going back. See…WE ARE TWINS. Stay Stunnin’ Huns!
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