Carrie Bradshaw.
We all want to be like her. Her cozy Manhattan apartment, typing away on her laptop, half naked, smoking a cigarette and looking better than any of us ever could.
She is fabulous. Her outfits, her shoes, her quotes, her job, her life. She has it all, yet she makes her living solely off the fact that she is missing something. Fixated on the idea of Mr. Perfect. She has what any of us would consider the total package, yet she spends most episodes of the all-inspiring HBO show sitting in her apartment, on her laptop, alone. Which begs the question; why?
What does she or any one of us lack, forcing us to sit here, looking out our windows, on our laptops, alone?
You cannot tell me that out of all the wrong men in this world there are no right men. You cannot tell me that there are no men who actually follow you out into the pouring rain in the middle of the night. You cannot tell me that there are no men who will look at you like you are the only girl in this twisted world. You cannot tell me he doesn’t exist.
Then again, if he did exist, Carrie wouldn’t be in her apartment, on her laptop, writing about what we can all relate to.
Another thought flows; is any relationship really Carrie Bradshaw perfect? Are her expectations too high or is she the only one who publically announces that she will not settle? Is she admirable or martyr material?
Yet here I sit, looking out my window on my laptop, typing questions that not even I have the answers to. Asking them purely because I too have the “total package,” missing just the one. And still I wonder, does he exist? And if so, when is he going to get here? Because it is quickly becoming my least favorite thing to think about.
However, for some reason, we all still crave it. We desire the Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle. Carrie Bradshaw with a perfect boyfriend and a perfect apartment for two would be boring. We need to feel the struggle. We need to be the damsel in distress, peering out our windows waiting for someone and no one to rescue us. Which begs another question; do we do this to ourselves?
We set up these expectations so we can be the suffering writer waiting for Mr. Perfect, knowing any guy who comes along will probably never fill the shoes.
And then one day, when you least expect it, you look out your window at the right second. And there he is, imperfections and all.
Mr. Big.
