And just like that, it’s 2022.

During this pocket of precious time while the baby naps, I want to take this moment to vent about And Just Like That. 

It’s terrible. It’s horrible. It’s like a  tedious writer’s exercise in fake progressive box-checking. And, yet I can’t stop watching. I even look forward to watching it each weekend. Even though I hate it.

Sex & The City was significant in its time for featuring women speaking so frankly about their bodies and sex.

We spent countless hours watching it in college, wondering if our 20’s would be that glamorous and filled with cosmos and pretty shoes. Would we grow up and become a Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte or Samantha?

In reality, we’re all more nuanced than any of these characters.

I didn’t really care about shoes, other than my hiking sandals. I ordered one cosmo before realizing that I wanted it to be better. We didn’t make much money, so we went to cheap happy hours at Calhoun Square or gimmicky ones that featured things like free seafood on the roof or mashed potato bars where we talked about boys and girls and other things, and that was the extent of that.

Our 30’s were filled with more happy hours, better ones, where we talked about work, mostly work, and our latest existential crises, the last years of which have been eaten up by the pandemic.

And Just Like That, I’m almost forty watching them navigate their 50’s.  

Visits to the orthopedic doctor, lost friendships, alcoholism, midlife regrets, worries about their children, death. . . oh god it’s getting too real.

When you watch it decades later, you see how problematic the show actually is.

You realize Carrie is actually a terrible person and want to be nothing like her.

You realize there is a price to being a workaholic like Miranda.

You realize that Charlotte is maybe not so bad, but just some of the time.

You realize Samantha made the smartest choice by leaving. I mean, who could handle all of the Carrie phone calls?

(Carrie calls Samantha for the fifth time that day)


“Hi, it’s me.”

“What’s up, now?”

“Oh, just walking around.”

Samantha rolls her eyes. Mutters a string of profanities. Moves to London. 

And even though you’ve progressed in many ways that they haven’t, and you may not actually like them, you still hold out some wild hope that if they will find some semblance of contentment in this next stage of life. Because maybe if they can, you can too.

I know, this makes about as much sense as looking forward to hate watching this show for the next four weeks.

Sigh. I’ll see you at the finale.