The other night I made an embarrassing admission to a friend. He, always looking for good stuff to read, asked: “What are you reading right now?” I can sometimes supply a good answer. “I’m in the middle of the latest Jane Mayer article in The New Yorker about CIA black sites,” or “the abortion article in Harper’s.” I can sometimes give the name of a novel I’m reading. But unfortunately, this time, I had to say something horrifying.
“I’m watching Netflix DVDs of Sex and the City. I don’t have time to read.” [Shudder...]
Did I really just say that?
I blame work. When I’m at work all day thinking about racism, people being kidnapped and tortured, reading people complain that the NSA is wiretapping their phone, the death penalty, and all kinds of other horrible things, it takes a toll. I dream about work stuff constantly, and it’s not of the “oh god, did I get that done? will I miss that deadline?” variety. It’s dreams of ICE agents raiding my parents’ house and dragging them away because they’re suspected of being illegal aliens. I once had a nightmare—and this is the worst kind—that I was pregnant and every time I tried to get an abortion, the abortion doctor was murdered by some insane pro-lifer.
So I turn to TV for solace. I love me some Law & Order, but for true, mind-numbing relaxation, I can’t get enough trashy TV. Gimme Grey’s Anatomy, Dirty Sexy Money, Cashmere Mafia or even the utterly awful Lipstick Jungle any day. But now that they’re all over and no more new episodes aren’t scheduled until the fall, I’ve taken refuge in SATC. The big freakin’ buzz over the movie is what got me into it. I think by the time I’m done watching the whole series, the movie will be available on DVD.
When SATC first debuted on HBO, I couldn’t stand it. I squirmed through watching an episode, and since I was in college at the time and studying very high-minded things like Milton and Kierkegaardian existentialism, I dismissed SATC as sexist garbage.
But these days, after a full day of work, there’s nothing better than sipping tea on the couch with a cat on your lap, zoning out to those four kvetching about their lives. Even more appealing to me now since I’m now the characters’ age—the mid-30′s. I like to indulge in the obssessing. It’s what New Yorkers do best. It’s fun to watch.
And the clothes are horrifyingly fabulous to see in a dated, late-90′s sort of way.
