What a long, strange trip it's been. From Manhattan to the Hamptons to Paris and back, our four favorite single and fabulous-exclamation-point ladies have finally gone out with a bang (and I mean that in all senses of the word). Carrie Bradshaw and company have bid farewell to not only their primetime home on HBO, but also to an unforgettable era of television history. Just when we thought Carrie's Manolo Blahniks couldn't get any higher and Samantha had already slept with every eligible bachelor in the tri-state area, these four femmes fatales returned each week to bring light into our lives and vibrators onto our television screens.
Last Sunday, women (and men who under the guise of "my girlfriend is forcing me to watch this" ) from Park Avenue to Main Street were forced to bid adieu to a world of expensive shoes and drole, imperfect men. This final episode was cliched, overly sentimental and predictable and I enjoyed every single minute.
WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD! IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW HOW THE SERIES ENDS, STOP READING!
In case you happened to be out of the country (or en route to the moon or under your favorite rock), let's recap. Petrovsky is a selfish pig. Big followed Carrie to Paris and declared his love for her, Miranda has come full circle from her sarcastic love-fearing ways and is now caring for Steve's mother in her Brooklyn abode. Samantha is recovering nicely from cancer and is in love with, in my humble opinion, the best looking man on planet Earth. And finally, Charlotte York-Goldenblatt, who, may I add, has a dog by the name of Elizabeth Taylor, has adopted a Chinese baby.
It was just your average day in the city that never sleeps.
While critics will undoubtedly label such a happily-ever-after ending a triumph of anti-feminist ideology, but why shouldn't Carrie Bradshaw live the rest of her life in a city she loves with a man who adores her? Why shouldn't Samantha be blessed with a selflessly kind and gentle Adonis-like hunk? If this could never happen in real life -- as critics will of course argue -- then what better place for it to happen than the fictional world of television where Gucci bags fall from trees and gorgeous men step out of every taxi cab within a 17-mile radius?
Perhaps the greatest news to break this month was not the state of affairs in Iraq, nor the circumference of Janet Jackson's nipple, but rather the fact that Big's name is John. Yes, John. John Big? Big John? Whatever way you look at it, the secret is out. We've been waiting six years for those four precious letters: J-O-H-N. John.
So now where's the mystery? Will Carrie be condemned to lead a life of sexual monotony and bear children with the names John Jr. and John III? (It sure beats Brady Brady ) Six years and 94 episodes later, this should not be viewed as the end of an innovative era of female playah-hatin' and sexual frankness. In fact, though the season may be ending, the legend lives on. Bradshaw and company have made it safe to talk about oral sex over a plate of waffles and fruit, and have made it socially acceptable to value one's shoes more than one's life.
The real question is: Where do we go from here? Barneys? "The OC?" What will we do without ladies who brunch and men who just can't seem to hack it? Well, don't buy that second box of tissues quite yet. Rumor has it that our lovely ladies are in talks to make a movie version of "Sex and the City." Movie or no movie, The Brad(shaw) Pack have certainly given us a run for our cable bill. Okay, so maybe they're not single anymore, but are Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte still fabulous?
Abso-f***ing-lutely.
