I am such a cheeseball.
I watched the Sex and the City movie last night. For the third time. And I still bawled.
When I saw it the first two times in the theater (back-to-back on a Saturday with girlfriends and by myself on Sunday), I was smitten. Last night, it seemed so much more over-the-top than I remember, but I still loved every minute of it.
Beyond the premise, the setting, the fashion and the characters, I love the show because there’s so much honesty in it. As outrageous as it is, it is tender and smart and nuanced. Every episode makes me laugh out loud and most also make me teary.
I also love how, now, the show makes me remember different chapters of my life. When it first debuted on HBO, I was living with Zack in San Francisco. Sunday nights, Jessica and Alex would come over to watch, and it seemed like such a fantasy to all of us. Then I moved to New York. I didn’t have cable but I watched episodes again and again on my VCR with Mitchell (this is eight years ago, people!), the fantasy just a wee bit closer. And then, when I bought my own place in the East Village, well into my 30s, staying home with Sex and the City and a side of either Teuscher truffles or dried pineapple was the ultimate way to spend Saturday night.
If I had all of those seasons on DVD now, I know I would be holing myself up in the treehouse all winter to watch them for the 28th time. So I guess it’s a good thing that I have only the movie, which is nowhere near as good as the series. I gotta get out there and meet my Big.