Monday, April 03, 2006
Jumping on the Carrie Bradshaw bandwagon
At the end of last week, through no apparent act of coordination on the part of their authors, three of the blogs I read regularly mentioned Carrie Bradshaw. And so I decided that, better late than never, it was time for me to mention Carrie Bradshaw, too.
Now, before you think that I'm just mentioning Carrie Bradshaw for the sake of mentioning Carrie Bradshaw (and also for the sake of saying Carrie Bradshaw over and over again) (Carrie Bradshaw), I had actually been thinking a great deal about Carrie Bradshaw before the coincidental mention of her name on so many blogs. As part of my Netflix free trial, I've gotten to watch the final season of Sex and the City, and during this sometimes painful journey, I have stumbled upon a theory: That the degree to which Carrie Bradshaw annoys me is directly proportional to the degree to which I am annoyed by her outfit.
Let's examine this: It's a fact that I did not always hate Carrie Bradshaw. During the first two seasons of the show, I found her perfectly tolerable, and actually even likable. I was even on her side for most of the third season, although careful scrutiny will reveal that this is where things started to unravel for Carrie and me. This is also when she seems to have picked up the habit of wearing black and brightly colored bras under sheer tops. Coincidence? I think not. She continued to wear on my nerves through most of the fourth season, and by season five and the first half of the sixth, I was ready to take a gun and put us both out of our misery.
For a long time, I didn't realize what was going on. I thought my hatred might have been brought on by the bad puns. The relentless high-pitched screaming. Her insistence on making everyone's problems somehow about her. But no--the real culprit here was her outfits. Oh, the outfits. My mind has mercifully blocked most of the hideousness (and, tellingly enough, HBO doesn't publicize photos of the really ugly outfits), but I can tell you that there were many occasions during the first half of season six on which I felt compelled to yell at my TV, "What the eff is Carrie wearing?!" (And yes, I did censor my language in my own home. No, I do not know why.)
But suddenly, during the last few episodes of the show, Carrie starts wearing clothes that are not only normal, but actually gorgeous. I mean, look at that dress. How can you be annoyed by anyone who's wearing that dress? It's not possible, I tell you! And so Carrie and I made amends, and she went out with style, and in my good graces. Well, almost. In the very last scene of the show, she turned up in some neon-and-fur monstrosity, and I had to start hating her again. So close, Carrie Bradshaw. So close.
At the end of last week, through no apparent act of coordination on the part of their authors, three of the blogs I read regularly mentioned Carrie Bradshaw. And so I decided that, better late than never, it was time for me to mention Carrie Bradshaw, too.
Now, before you think that I'm just mentioning Carrie Bradshaw for the sake of mentioning Carrie Bradshaw (and also for the sake of saying Carrie Bradshaw over and over again) (Carrie Bradshaw), I had actually been thinking a great deal about Carrie Bradshaw before the coincidental mention of her name on so many blogs. As part of my Netflix free trial, I've gotten to watch the final season of Sex and the City, and during this sometimes painful journey, I have stumbled upon a theory: That the degree to which Carrie Bradshaw annoys me is directly proportional to the degree to which I am annoyed by her outfit.
Let's examine this: It's a fact that I did not always hate Carrie Bradshaw. During the first two seasons of the show, I found her perfectly tolerable, and actually even likable. I was even on her side for most of the third season, although careful scrutiny will reveal that this is where things started to unravel for Carrie and me. This is also when she seems to have picked up the habit of wearing black and brightly colored bras under sheer tops. Coincidence? I think not. She continued to wear on my nerves through most of the fourth season, and by season five and the first half of the sixth, I was ready to take a gun and put us both out of our misery.
For a long time, I didn't realize what was going on. I thought my hatred might have been brought on by the bad puns. The relentless high-pitched screaming. Her insistence on making everyone's problems somehow about her. But no--the real culprit here was her outfits. Oh, the outfits. My mind has mercifully blocked most of the hideousness (and, tellingly enough, HBO doesn't publicize photos of the really ugly outfits), but I can tell you that there were many occasions during the first half of season six on which I felt compelled to yell at my TV, "What the eff is Carrie wearing?!" (And yes, I did censor my language in my own home. No, I do not know why.)
But suddenly, during the last few episodes of the show, Carrie starts wearing clothes that are not only normal, but actually gorgeous. I mean, look at that dress. How can you be annoyed by anyone who's wearing that dress? It's not possible, I tell you! And so Carrie and I made amends, and she went out with style, and in my good graces. Well, almost. In the very last scene of the show, she turned up in some neon-and-fur monstrosity, and I had to start hating her again. So close, Carrie Bradshaw. So close.
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