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Tuesday, Oct 7, 2008
It was supposed to be feminist, fun and empowering. Then my fellow fans started hooting at strange men.
Nov 14, 2002 | So what if my midriff never sees the light of day, this belly chain was mine, all mine. Let the woman from Pequannock sulk. I won it fair and square. I know my "Sex and the City" trivia. Besides, any devoted fan would remember what Charlotte and Trey named their private parts in the third season. Ever heard of Rebecca and Schooner? That's like so obvious.
It was the third and final hour of On Location Tours' Sex and the City Tour of Manhattan and I was in no mood for prissy Natasha types. As we reached our final destination, the Plaza Hotel, where Carrie finally left Mr. Big, the only thing I was interested in was telling myself that $63 for two tickets really wasn't that much and that Allison, the good friend I had dragged along, would surely talk to me again sometime before the end of the year. I could see it in her face. This self-proclaimed "hot chick tour," with its hooting at random men, its power shopping, its "diva prayers," had just been too much. I felt it too -- belly chain or no.
This wasn't supposed to happen this way, at least not on my end. Guilty pleasures are my forte. I have swooned over "Survivor," rattled on about Ross and Rachel, gone down on G-string Divas. I have "Pretty in Pink" memorized and have held grudges against people who spell Britney wrong. I mean, she's not all "t" and "a."
But "Sex and the City" ("SATC") is another matter altogether. I love this show. Moreover, I believe that the show is an important step for women's television and women in general. I have even written articles on it, not to mention a 75-page master's thesis in which I close-read Carrie and Aidan's romance, traced Miranda's character historically, and defended the show against those who say it's consumerist fluff devoid of any feminist messages. Of course, it's not "Backlash" on the medium-size screen, I argued, but it's still the only mainstream show that defends a woman's right not to marry, relishes female friendships, and portrays women enjoying sex on their own terms.
I'm not sure of the exact moment my confidence waned, but it definitely had something to do with our tour guide -- let's be nice and call her Nikki -- propositioning every man under 40 who walked by our distinctly unsexy tour bus. "Hey, guys, for 30 bucks you can hang out with 56 beautiful women. No sex included," she added unconvincingly.
With her white peasant shirt, denim miniskirt and hot-pink feather boa, Nikki was the embodiment of every teen magazine editor who had ever messed with my head. You know her. She is at once your spunky best friend -- gabbing on about a guy or a zit -- and also that friend's older sister, who with her perfectly painted toenails, her glitter eye shadow and her ability to extend the word "fuh-uck" with two whiny syllables, is way cooler than you'll ever be.
What surprised me most was how effective -- even before the tour began -- Nikki was at bringing out the wild side in what seemed like suburban women who venture to the city once a year. Despite the few with tiaras, cowboy hats and lots of cleavage, most of the women were older than the 20- or 30-something urban sophisticates I imagined would be on the tour. These women clearly liked the show, but they didn't look like the types who pick up guys or spend $400 on a pair of shoes without saying at least 10 Hail Marys.
But there they were gabbing on about "Zeta-Jones'" ring and banging on the window at hot "passer-guys," making me feel like a teenage daughter whose mother flirts with the plumber. Horrified at being implicated in this, I sank into my seat and told myself this is not what Carrie or even Sam would do. They like sex, but they have limits. They are classy. They do not beg men to let them be their sugar mamas.
My anxiety accelerated as it became clear that the tour was less about the actual series than about living the lifestyle the show supposedly inspires. In short, it was a shopping tour of rich, decadent New York -- with about a quarter of the talk surrounding "SATC," another quarter on celebrity gossip, and the other half on Nikki's glamorous life after her parents shelled out "120 grand" on NYU. To the left, she explained, was Tiffany's, where Trey bought Charlotte's engagement ring and Nikki's dad, a "brilliant attorney," bought her mother a "big-ass rock." To which she quickly added, "At least I'll get it when she dies."
"Totally!" shrieked her chorus of cronies, before I could explain again that, actually, that's not what Carrie would have done, as evidenced in the classic "My Motherboard, Myself" episode, when she feels very ambivalent about Aidan buying her things. "She's been taking care of herself a long time," I wanted to scream. But they were too far gone. We were pulling into Jimmy Choo's Shoes, a favorite of the four "SATC" girls, and suddenly everyone was awash in "fetish!"
Because we weren't allowed in as a group, those not bold enough to enter alone -- myself included -- were left buying "SATC" memorabilia from some "Sopranos" extra, who was selling them out of his trunk. But even he wouldn't allow full access to this "other world."
"No autographs, unless you buy something," he warned.
"Oh please," I snipped. Wasn't being shown up by some snooty shoe dealer enough for one day?
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