by Devina Gunawan
I love watching Sex and the City. I would binge on the marathon with a bag of Cheetos, and my night would be complete.
I adore the writers who came up with four women so different and so representative of our community.
There is Carrie Bradshaw, the freelance journalist who has more than she deserves, in my opinion. She longs for great love, but is lacking the sense of commitment. She is a free spirit who desires a home. She is the inner conflict written out in her column. She is the voice of every curious soul searching for something to hold on to.
Then, meet the great Samantha Jones. She has slept with every man in New York, and she is never ashamed of it. She is sensual, gorgeous, and deadly. Getting the words “I love you” from her is like finding a real unicorn or extinct species in the middle of Manhattan.
In comparison to the two women who always run away from commitment stands Charlotte York. She is the believer of love at first sights and happily ever after. It scares me that she works in art department, and that there is a big chunk of me that is exactly what Charlotte York represents: a Disney princess in flesh and blood.
At last, all hail the successful lawyer Miranda Hobbes. She needs no man in her life to be happy. She is successful and can take care of herself. More often than not, she intimidates a lot of men and ends up alone by the end of the night.
And I love all of them equally. Because at some point in my life, I am every single one of these characters.
I remember starting out as Samantha Jones. Definitely not as crazy as her depicted role, but I know that I had the very same heart that she has. Untouched, unmoved, and untamed.
And then at some point, my inner Charlotte York won over and took charge of my life. I kid you not, that was the best and the worst of time. I have never fallen so hard, loved so deeply, and felt so much pain all at once.
However, not long after, Carrie Bradshaw knocked on my door and dragged me out of my lalaland. She drugged me and showed me everything that was wrong with love. I was injected with so much fear and paranoia that I had no choice but to walk away from the love I had once adored so.
Then here I am at the moment, sitting in front of my laptop, wondering where life will take me someday. In the end, I have chosen to go after what will benefit me, and only me, most. I have decided to side with Miranda Hobbes, and I am fighting the very urge to let Charlotte come back into my life.
It is cold and lonely, and the only comfort I have is the peace of mind that I will end up successful and powerful. Just like how I had always wanted to be. Just like the seven year old me and her ambition to beat every man, to prove that girls could be much more than trophy wives and mothers.
So I shut the door to the one thing that I love the most, to the bedtime stories that I prayed so hard to be my own stories. I locked my thoughts and heart away from the enchanting world of true love and happiness in the arms of a prince charming.
And I can still hear her, crying outside my door, banging on the door loudly so I might let her in. I can close my eyes and pretend she never exists but she does, and she is haunting me every second.
Charlotte is still outside, locked out and away, and she is in pain.
I can hear her beg for her fairytale, for her right to find happiness, and for her place in my life. I can almost feel her tears in my eyes, and I have to fight so hard to keep them dry.
Each character represents a stage in my life. And to be honest, I am not a big fan of that. Why can’t I be both Miranda and Charlotte?
Usually the moment my eyes start burning and the tears continue to flow, I turn off the TV and head back to my room. Sex and the City, no matter how entertaining, can be the hardest reality slap on my face.