This fragment of SATC deals with secret sex--the great stuff you have with people you're embarrassed to introduce to your friends. Since I have only been in relationships, I really can't attest to knowing what this is about. (Why do I even bother writing about this show if I can't relate to it?) If you're attracted enough to someone to sleep with him, it seems you should think your friends and family will find him attractive enough too...and if they don't, who cares?! You're having great sex!
It must have been fun to sit around and come up with topics for the show. It's the one chance to think of all manner of bizarre issues concerning love. Obsessed with models? Great, one episode down. Can't live without blow jobs? Okay, we'll use that in season five. Thirty hilarious minutes on secret sex? The audience will love it. Probably because we've never had it. It's just so novel.
Hank thinks I write because it makes me feel like Carrie. Here I am alone on a Saturday night, writing on the couch, while Bela snores and chases who knows what in his dreams. It could be depressing. But because Carrie does it and is glamorous, so can I.
The truth is, I don't feel glamorous. I feel like facades are crumbling all around me. Even with the show.... I remember remarking to my sister about how much I love SJP's style. And she said, "You mean the style of the person who styles her?" Ouch. M's in show business. She knows all about this stuff, but I don't. And that's when it hit me. I have a really hard time telling the difference between reality and what goes on in my imagination--between what's real and what's just really convincing.
Maybe everyone has their obsessions. Mine are SATC, Victoria's Secret, and spicy food. Yay. Maybe there are more. I've had people say that you should make peace with them, laugh at them, even exploit them to make your footprint in the world a unique one. But in the end, maybe they're just sad. They lull us into an alternate reality that makes us feel great in the moment, but in the end leaves us the same people we have always been--the ones we have been trying to escape through our obsessions. And we better be okay with that.
But even if we were to get beyond trite fixations like Sunday football (don't look at me), mayonnaise (I know a girl who ate this on absolutely everything) and my SATC reruns and try to be real every minute of our lives, it seems like there's a whole vastness of larger obsessions. Some of them we might not even know about--like an obsession with cleanliness (if you see our house, you will know I obviously don't struggle with this one), being ambitious at work, or, what I fear may be one of mine, feeling morosely analytical about life.
That's why I never kept a journal for very long growing up. Why record all of my crazy thought patterns? Wasn't thinking them painful enough?
Just tonight, Hank asked me to go out with him and his study group friends. There might be wine there, he said, and we could chat when they weren't studying. Nothing sounded worse to me than tagging along with him to study. I mean how lame could I get? It's bad enough that I don't have other options to speak of, but I can't imagine sitting around with a bunch of med students letting them practice physicals on me--all while trying to make casual conversation? No way.
But who knows, it could have been fun. At least I would have breached the 1/2 square mile distance around our house and talked with other creatures besides Hank and Bela. I asked him to consider the reverse. Would he go to a fashion discussion group with me or a meeting about piano technique? He said sure, especially if he was lonely, was in a new town, and wanted to meet some friends. And I believed him. After saying, "Thanks, hon, but I'm okay here" with a smile and watching him leave, a larger worry set in. Is there something in me that opposes being happy?
It's like I'm always waiting for that perfect thing to come along to do the trick. First it was the perfect man, but he came. While I'm near blissful in the relationship realm, now it's the perfect career. Maybe I will be satisfied once I get a position writing for a fashion magazine, sign my first book deal, or design a beautiful formal wear line. Or maybe teaching English in the Peace Corp will make me feel at peace with myself at last. If not, perhaps once I have children, I'll feel whole. Or...Will there always be something missing? Always some reason I hold myself back from being happy????
I don't have the answers to these questions tonight. Maybe I never will. But I hope so.
I do know that it's time for a movie and a walk with the pup. Sometimes too much thinking makes the world a scary place. But it's nothing some fresh air, a warm brownie, and a cup of tea won't cure, and I plan to partake in all three. So goodnight for now. I hope you'll be back. I will.
Like my dad always says, "you can't look outside of yourself for happiness, you have to find it within yourself." The majority of the working force hates their job, so we have to look other places for happiness (we have to be happy with every day activities).
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