CARRIE BRADSHAW AIN'T
THE ONLY GAME IN TOWN
[a.k.a. that article I trot out every few years to show I'm not a knock-off Sex And the City writer; proving it when I toss you a purposefully SATC article to show you the difference in my voice, tone and ... man, this is a long title, isn't it?]
Benjamin Kissell
"I don't know about you girls, but I can't fathom what I was thinking looking back at those outfits
from seasons 1-4." "Yeah you do - we were being paid to be walking mannequins, Kim."
In my early 20's, there wasn't a cheap fad, fashionably chic course or retro neuveau tack I didn't try to stay ahead of and yet, it somehow wasn't UNTIL my very early 20's that I finally landed on the bandwagon that the ENTIRE FREAKING WORLD had been latched onto [like a hipster in skinny jeans latches onto his organically-grown coffee] - I found my love for Sex and the City and became one of the herd. And it was fun.
Don't get me wrong, I'd heard about it before then - its popularity had been as ubiquitous as the heretofore mentioned hipsters in skinny jeans are now [seriously, walk down a sidewalk or through your local mall and count them up ... you'll thank me - or be so depressed you down half a box of wine (white, not red you heathen)], however, despite its popularity I hadn't discovered how SATC related to me. True, I was a mildly-fashion-conscious gay man living in a large small-town (or a small large-town, whichever you prefer), but whenever Sarah Jessica Parker and her emaciated frame showed up on my television screen shilling for HBO's newest season of bobbleheads I took a 'Not me' stance.
That is, until I made the fateful mistake that haunted my mother for weeks afterward ... I caught the first mini-marathon when TBS began airing it [I may have subjected her to a viewing of the entire first season when I ran out and bought it on dvd the next day ... 8+ years later and I'm not sure if she's forgiven me yet].
By 2008 and the release of the first SATC movie, I already owned 5 out of 6 seasons, had a myriad of pink and high heel-themed accoutrements and had discovered a love of all things chick lit [of course, for the last part I really can lay that at the feet of Jen Lancaster, but that's another article]. I was a gay man hooked. I had a sickness and I had also discovered my love of writing in the similar dating vein as the fictional Bradshaw and her real-life counterpart (and creator) Candace Bushnell.
My humor posts about my dating life (the ups and downs) on various pages [okay, mostly my rotating Myspace pages ... don't judge me, 'twas 2005-8 when it was still slightly popular] had garnered me a slew of fans and, of course, more than the occasional comparison to Bradshaw and Bushnell. In an effort to show how different my voice was from the SATC vibe, and in celebration of the release of the film, I penned an article where I took on the role of Carrie Bradshaw in my own little community.
That article is what follows, please enjoy ... and if you don't? Well, who forced you to read it?! Oh, I did? Well, still. Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride anyways.
..........................
"If I pose awkwardly in designer couture, no one will be able to tell I've been starving the entire
production and would happily gnaw off the knee of the nearest Grip. Right?"
Cue the “dah, dah dah, dah dahdahdah dah …"
Fredericksburg is a moderate city, in the picturesque riverside of the Rappahannock, and in that city, there are thousands and thousands of single people, all colliding in an attempt to find themselves and that “special one” they can call their own.
On any given day, there are several hundred thousand stories going on in The City which sometimes dozes in the sun, but here we'll focus on 4 friends; 4 single ‘girls’ who just want to make it through the day and have some fun – because girls do just wanna have fun.
Today is a Tuesday evening and a light rain is falling upon The City, but this doesn’t deter any of the twig-like overly-made-up and designer-dressed girls and their friends from speeding around the area, walking in knock-off labels and shopping the high-end stores while they totter on stalactite heels which promise future crippling.
It's on this kind of evening that these 4 friends – me and mine – decide to meet up at our favorite restaurant and around the table our day’s events are re-capped and gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Where we have no qualms about our ‘kiss and tell’ stories.
.........................
Outside of downtown lives and works Sarah, who speeds past obstacles and itinerant drivers in her stylized green sedan: confident, stylish, a sexy brunette, she works by day in the financial district doing banking work. Recently 21, she is the kind of confident and curvy woman that men throw themselves at and many female co-workers eye with envy. She lives with her best friend and close confidant, Johnny, but still finds time for her work, close “girlfriends” and yet, more time to work her way through college while shopping like there's no tomorrow.
Past downtown, in the western suburbs we find Christany winding her way in her black pick-up truck: vivacious, energetic, larger than life, Christany is the sort of petite blonde bombshell not seen since the days of Marilyn and Mansfield. She may be the youngest of our group, at 19, but, don't let that fool you, she is full of spitfire energy and wisdom, her firm convictions lend themselves to her stalwart character and a bright future. She works in the private sector, in her family-held company. Many have mistakenly assumed that the earnestness and baby-blue sweetness of Christany means she is lacking in worldly knowledge – a big mistake. Just because she lives by the credo “a ring and a priest” doesn’t mean, she is naïve.
While across and from uptown, Nate drives by in his smart and sensible blue compact car: smart, kind, caring, long-minded and stalwart, at 22 he is the most successful of our group, working deep in the corporate sector. Tall, at 6’2, his dirty blond locks, short-cut of course, are accented by his deep blue eye, he gains and garners appreciative looks from men like a Park Avenue Socialite collects shoes. Much like Christany, he has enough confidence in him to light up the city, allowing others to bask in his brilliance. Quick witted, Nate has often been the comic center of whatever group he is in, and if there isn’t one, he draws it to him.
And then, there’s me, Benjamin, driving from the outlying northern 'burbs to the chic bistro in my classic clunker – a powdery blue sub-compact: at 24, almost 25, I am the oldest of our group, having seen a sometimes-too-much of the world and yet remaining so sheltered that I almost naively hold onto optimism (an oft-dangerous quality, or at least a get-me-into-a-bad-situation trait). In the 7+ years I’ve been dating, I've seen so much; yet, it’s but a drop in the bucket to the drama and man-troubles available to us. At almost 5’11 (a solid 6 foot with gelled hair and couture shoes) I attract a moderate amount of attention from men … some good, some bad, and many just plain funny.
We meet up, I arrive last, at our usual dining spot. Having just missed Sarah (I wave at her as she drives past me in the parking lot, called back to work without a cocktail to sooth her), I sit next to Nate in the booth. Sidling in, I reach for the drink menu as a new and different waitress leans in and joins our conversation in a welcome manner, enjoying the banter. Giving her my ID, I decide to order a Cosmo, in honor of the day, and I lean in for the commentary from my girls.
Christany, it seems, is in-between assignations with the company, having finished a job earlier in the evening, she is waiting for the call to head to the next. Like is often the case, she and Nate engage each other in fierce (but non-combative) conversation, debating everything from the case of “nature vs. nurture” to religion. Tonight isn’t any different.
The waitress arrives with my heavily vodka-laced pink drink, which burns pleasantly on the way down giving me a warm glow on this rain-drippy evening. Realizing I don’t want to drive drunk – well, mildly intoxicated – I decided to pick up an entree of “loaded potato skins” to help stave off the effects.
While we talk and gab, Nate and Christany trading quips and smart barbs, I fill them in on my day at work, mentioning that after leaving retail-hell, I met up with my other friend (the gorgeous brunette, Christine) at the movies, where we shared popcorn, soda, and a love for the girls of “Sex and the City” (me, appropriately decked out in pink and chic). As we chat, we also keep an eye on the inhabitants of the bar, and even note a well-muscled young man who brushed past us as he made his way back to the bathroom and returned to the bar. Christany, as the least subtle of us (a feat Nate closely follows her in and I am fast gaining on), has made mention of his “gawgeous ass”, to which I reply in a not-too-hushed “mmm”, while I bend my head in his direction.
Men-watching, intense conversation, drinks and fun are our norm, and with the weather turning mildly on us, we are not surprised when Christany receives the call to head to her next job. Getting the checks, we pay and turn to leave.
And that is when Fredericksburg’s innate sense of humor comes to pass.
I hug Christany, and as I turn to walk past – in my pink and grey finery, my hair not-quite-as-coiffed as I'd like – I notice a familiar face dipped forward in conversation, one eye on me, the other on his dinner partner. Like his hand.
My own most recent mistake. My Mr. Big.
It’s been months - almost a year - since I cut him out of my life. Over nine months since last I saw him. Apparently, The City decided I had a ticket for unclaimed emotional baggage that it wanted me to pick up.
Especially if I'm not having a good hair-day, asshole!
In shock, I said the first thing which came to mind: “Mother-fucking cocksucker”.
Hoping to slip away before I'm noticed, I turned to breeze past, tossing a goodbye wave to Christany and Nate. All hopes to gracefully exit the restaurant before I caused a scene fled when I had to shove the doors open which caused the wind to catch my jacket and flip it open and into my face as my currently no-longer-gel-held hair whipped into something reminiscent of Something About Mary. Flushed with embarrassment, I realize that I'd shoved my feelings about what had happened out of the way - zipping them closed in a Louis Vuitton suitcase which I'd been doing my best to forget where it'd been left - instead of dealing with and then getting past them.
Nate calls these moments, 'Toldja So's' – because he usually has.
When I get home, I slough my finery in lieu of comfort-clothes and a knitted cap over the fly-away hair in my bedroom and soon find myself at my desk, staring blankly at the laptop screen when I begin to wonder …
When we end something with someone, is it really over? Or do they have to end it with you, too?
Can you present your ticket and release your emotional baggage with someone? Or do you both have to pick up your luggage to let it go? Does the unclaimed emotional baggage just trail behind you; eventually going unnoticed until it’s just a regular part of you
Deciding not to let these questions go unanswered, I unblock Big’s screenname from my Instant Messanger long enough to see that he was online. Hemming and hawing, I take a swig of my coffee and begin to type a direct and simple message.
Of course, he immediately responds.
Politely engaging him in conversation for a few minutes from there I realize he hasn’t changed at all: he's still a selfish and petty, self-centered little boy in a grown man's body. He tells me all about the cute new guy he's been seeing (the slim, effeminate boy with cashmere and express jeans he had his hand on at dinner) - whether he thinks this will bond us or brag, I don't care to know.
It's clear that the baggage has been picked up and discarded on his end.
Deciding that the healthiest thing I can do is to end all contact between us on a clean and honest note, I decide to be blunt and tell him that I know all about his cheating and the lying that he thought he'd hidden from me and that he needs to be more selective in his trysts. And then I hit the 'Block' button and lean back in my desk chair.
As I sit there, my knees at my chin and my computer screen glowing in front of me, I begin to glow in turn. Smiling to myself, I feel the cold weight of the anger I’d been carrying around since the end of me and Big lift off. My smile is genuine, for the first time since his caustic words at the end of us I don’t hate him.
I don’t want to avoid him, forget him or hate him. I just want to move past him.
Of course, this means Nate was right. Again.
In the end, though, we have to claim the emotional baggage - whether to keep it with us, or to hopefully let it go on its merry way and our part in packing it so heavily. Sometimes all we need is a little self-confidence and the temerity to go through with finding the answers.
That ... and some really good friends with cocktails.
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