Five years ago, I leaned across the ELLE.com office and called out to site director Leah Chernikoff, “You know, I wanted to be her in college, but Carrie Bradshaw is full of shit.” It was one of those offhand, on-brand remarks that happen when smart women talk trash TV, but I spun it into an essay about Carrie’s major feminist failures and…well…the response was bigger than Big.
Once the essay went viral, Twitter trolls pounced. Former friends texted. The print magazine ran an excerpt, along with some vicious reader reactions. And I was nervous before every encounter with Sarah Jessica Parker, because first loves die hard, you know?
Since this piece was first published, much has changed: We have Trump and #MeToo; we check privilege instead of Vuitton luggage. My life has remixed, too—I’m a better friend, a worse liar, and I finally got invited to a Prada show. But despite many shifts, it’s still true: Our modern archetype of female independence, Carrie Bradshaw, is full of shit. We should come to terms with it, unpack it, and even embrace it.
Let’s start here.
Once upon a time (2003, if you need to know), I yearned to be a real-life Carrie Bradshaw. I believed in cashmiracles. I sprinted in impossible stilettos. I had long, blonde, naturally curly (c-c-c-curly!) hair. And of course, I had my very own sex column where I, too, could muse on the problems of guys, friends, and Fendi.
Okay, so my column was in the college paper instead of the New York Star. My Prada stash was thrifted, obsessively, from consignment stores in Boston. And the closest I got to Bungalow 8 was house parties where we blasted The Strokes and The Clash until 4 A.M. But the similarities between reckless underage undergrad me and Ms. Bradshaw seemed obvious: We were writers. We were kooks. We were free spirits who believed in love, not rules. We were sisters in arms—or at least in army print mini-skirts.
I lived in this designer delusion for nearly four years, excitedly recording my latest trysts and feuds for a captive campus audience. College was a privilege I didn’t take lightly, but still, I always felt outside the norms—I was too artsy and angry for the idyllic grassy quads, where I caused lots of trouble both in and out of class. I couldn't wait for the inevitable moment when I would move to New York City, breeze through Fashion Week, haunt various "scenes," and work at a big magazine. I would eat pizza in an evening gown. I would counsel panicked friends with gentle truths and strong drinks. I would date musicians and artists and maybe even The New Yankee…
Obviously, Carrie Bradshaw was a fictional character. But because she was so symbolic of women whacking their own paths to life and love, I embraced her adventures as symbols of my own. Still, I should have realized that despite the hair, Carrie Bradshaw and I were very different. I didn't sleep with every guy I dated. The little money I had would never go towards full-priced Manolos. (Hello, eBay…) I don't think I could put up with Charlotte's twitty insanity for more than two seconds. And cheating on Aidan with Big…I mean, no.
In my teens, I simply assumed my fictional icon was cooler, more experienced, and more sophisticated than I was—and when it came to living bravely, I truly believed she was everything. Her infidelity, her flighty concept of adulting, the entire existence of Berger…I honestly thought when I grew up, got a cool job, a gasp-worthy wardrobe, and a revolving door of worthy dates, then I'd get it.
But there’s nothing to get here, and I say this as a certified adult with fashion cred, sexual fulfillment, and (yes, still) blonde, c-c-c-curly hair. With every TBS re-run, I'm smacked with a sad reality: Living like Carrie Bradshaw was a terrible goal, because Carrie Bradshaw is an idiot. Carrie Bradshaw is a sucker. And—this is the part that kills me—Carrie Bradshaw is a fake feminist who’s holding down the patriarchy, one pun at a time.
In the words of Dear Sugars' Steve Almond, Carrie’s M.O. is “learned helplessness,” and it’s both insidious and super-boring. Here’s how it goes: In every episode, Carrie Bradshaw pretends to be independent and free-thinking. She wears progressive looks, so she seems like a progressive person. But she’s only friends and lovers with other wealthy white people—pretty suspect in the melting pot that is New York City. And just like her taste in social circles, Carrie’s adult choices are seriously (and suspiciously) skewed towards old-school conservative nonsense—the kind that demands she’s saved by a guy in a luxury vehicle.
Take her financial troubles: What kind of successful, smart 30-something doesn't understand how a bank account works? Her tech illiteracy, which was supposed to be charming, is also irksome. What kind of asshole buys a Prada shirt for the broke, fashion-averse guy she's known for like two weeks? And who moves to Paris—moves!—without trying to connect with old colleagues, her paper's overseas bureau, or even friends-of-friends? Charlotte must have amies on the Left Bank from her gallery days, right?
It’s especially rough because every SATC fan knows Carrie is a capable babe. She can write like a Balmain bandit, sprint in Louboutin spike heels, comfort friends in real crises, and (eventually) drive stick shift in the Hollywood Hills. But she’s totally unwilling to do basic shit—cook food, send emails, check her checking account—because she assumes some dude is going to eventually do it for her.
Why does it matter? Because Carrie Bradshaw isn't just a TV character. She's a contemporary archetype for single, working women—and child-free women, and writing women, and fashion-loving women—and her presence has real power. For years, she’s represented a new path for women, one paved in NARS Orgasm blush and built with friends instead of husbands. But Carrie Bradshaw just might be the epitome of “white feminism,” the kind of janky idealism that pays lip service to inclusion, even as it quietly chases wealth and wifedom. She’s got a serious white knight complex, but she clings hard to the idea that her ideals are as free as her hair. (Also, the giant flower pins? No.)
Carrie talks a good game about women being wild horses, but she still needs a guy to make her feel complete…and to keep her funded, housed, and even inspired as a writer. To me, that's beyond dumb. It's kind of unforgivable.
Even still, there’s some good in my misplaced Bradshaw fixation. She inspired me to write publicly, to find my own voice, to resist keratin treatments, to expect good sex in a serious relationship, and to experiment with pale blue pumps. Am I grateful to Carrie Bradshaw for all that?
Abso-fucking-lutely. Even still, even now.
