Day 31: Shoes and Saviors

This outfit makes me wish I lived in a place where it was always summer. I could live in this ensemble. I would like to own every single piece here, please, oh clothing gods. I mean, what's not to love? It's all so carefree and cool, like a glass of chilled, white wine in June. We'll call it, "Livin' the (Effortlessly Chic) Dream."

"I've been dating since I was fifteen. I'm exhausted. Where is he?" Charlotte

"I lost my Choo." Carrie, after losing her shoe running to catch the last ferry from Staten Island

This is a very special episode, because it contains my favorite SATC quote, the first one listed above. The second quote might just be my second favorite, and I will explain why in due time. The question Carrie poses this round is, "Do all women want to be rescued?"

But first, a small review of a local boutique. If I visit a great place, I'll write a little something about it here. A friend told me about True Love, a vegan shoe store, last week and mentioned we should meet there for Denver's monthly, "First Friday" festivities. I was hesitant about the vegan thing but not hesitant enough to miss out on shoe shopping, fake leather or not. As I pulled up, magically finding parking on Broadway during rush hour, I felt a rush of excitement as I looked into the shop. About 20 fashionable, young women were trying on shoes and drinking pink champagne. It was going to be a fabulous time. I went in, and while I looked for my friend, one question kept repeating itself in my mind: "How much are those peep-toes in the window?"

An hour and a stack of shoeboxes later, I had my heels--a pair of deep red platforms my friend had suggested I try on. They were amazing. And they were $30. If only I could have stopped there, but I browsed the rest of the store, passing up cute boots for 70% off and a bargain rack of variously-sized flats and heels, but grabbing ribbed, brown legwarmers (remember, I'm addicted); a thick, elastic "leather" belt with tiny gold skulls on it; and a pair of brown aviator glasses for $10. I couldn't resist. By the time I got to the register and met Sarah, the owner, there were about 15 more women in the store and not a single man. She said it had been a good night so far. As for me, $79 down, I still felt up. I don't know if it was the tinted champagne, the good company of like-minded women, or my rockin shoes, but I left feeling a little less hard on myself for my shoe weakness and a little happier about life. It's funny what shoes can do...

...and onto SATC. It all starts at a firefighters benefit, where the beefy firemen are stripping for a room full of single women and judges. The judges are deciding who will make it into this year's calendar. The hotness factor of the men seems uncanny, and the girls decide it's because they represent the ideal rescuers, strong, fearless males who can save any damsel in distress. Samantha hits on one of the guys, later creating her fantasy, four-alarm sex-a-thon. Charlotte gets hammered and decides this year will be the year she marries. At a bar, she meets a charming fellow, who punches out a guy who won't leave her alone. Mesmerized, she asks him out, but she soon learns he just has a thing for fighting. Miranda gets eye surgery to correct her vision. She finds an unexpected "knight" in Steve, who picks her up from the hospital and never leaves her side. Meanwhile, Carrie attracts the attention of a local politician. Still reeling from Big, she initially turns down the politician's advances. However, when he rescues her from having to walk home in her new Jimmy Choos, she decides to give him a chance.

I love this episode, because it relates so much to how I met Hank. I know I've told this story before, and I won't go through it all again. But there's a darker side I don't think I've mentioned...

Almost right after Hank and I met, the bars were closing. He offered to walk me to my car, which I thought was across the highest bridge in town. I had drunk way too much that night and was wearing flimsy (but cute) platform shoes from Target. Since I had trouble walking in them sober, it's no wonder that along the way, I got fed up with stumbling and decided to go barefoot and carry the shoes. Somewhere between bar and bridge, I lost one.

Now, I loved those shoes, and I said so to Hank. Immediately, he stopped and told me to wait right there while he went to find the missing mate. He disappeared, and I found myself in the middle of the bridge. Now, reader, not only do I have a mild fear of heights, I have depressive tendencies (if you hadn't realized already) that tend to grow exponentially when I drink heavily. I'm the crier--that girl who is fine one minute and getting tears in her jello shot the next, though nothing obvious about the situation has changed.

So, there I am, on a really high bridge, drunk, shoeless, cars full of college kids whizzing by and honking, and I'm grasping onto the edge, wondering what it would feel like to jump. I wasn't suicidal, really, because that implies some deep desire to die. I didn't have that. I was just drunk, sad, alone, and curious. And I was waiting. At some point, I had decided that Hank was going to rescue me. I thought of how romantic that would be--me crying on a bridge, while my handsome man (younger AND buff, I might ad) puts his arms around me, slips my shoes on (including the one he magically retrieved), and takes me home.

This rescue fantasy never happened. What happened is this: I got tired of waiting, tore myself away from the edge, stumbled across the remainder of the bridge, and sat down on the grated stairs--cold, tired, and disappointed. When Hank finally showed up, he told me he was unable to find my shoe. He asked if I was okay. I said I was and just wanted to get out of there. I suddenly remembered that my car was indeed parked a block from the bar, which meant we had to go back across that dreadful bridge (I told you I was drunk). But in the end, Hank did save me. He carried me the whole way back, and I didn't even have to ask him to.

I do think all women secretly want a man who can rescue them. Maybe this argument will infuriate independent women everywhere (it even makes me cringe), but I have to hold to it. If it makes them (us) feel better, all men probably want the same thing in a woman. When you look at it that way, it's pretty cool, really. Perhaps, it's biological. Or maybe it's just love. But, we rescue each other--as the famous last lines of "Pretty Woman" describe.

What do we rescue each other from? It could be from a broken heart or loneliness. It could from taking ourselves too seriously. And it could just be from walking home with only one shoe. Whatever it is, it feels pretty good knowing someone's there with us on our side. Maybe we just need to be reminded of that once in a while.

When I was packing to move to Denver to live with Hank, I came across the mateless shoe from the night we met. Though I had no logical reason to keep it, I couldn't make myself throw it away. Now, it resides in a glass cabinet in our living room, and it makes me smile every time I see it. It reminds me where we came from, and it reminds me I'm not alone.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 30: How Complicated is Ex+You?

Oh, these shoes are so beautiful. I have to confess that I copied the front of this month's Glamour magazine for this look. But hey, it was SJP, so it's okay, right? I'm calling it, "Bringing out the Bling." I love the mix of rugged jeans and frilly sparkles for a evening outfit with attitude. Basically, play up all the accessories; make them as loud and big as possible. Keep the jeans tattered, even baggy, rolled up, and ripped if you have them. You can wear a plain, white t-shirt under a sparkly jacket or wear a sequined tank or shirt--just so there's lots of shiny on top. Cute.

So, we're at the end of season two. Of course, all endings have to be dramatic, and this time is no different. Big's engaged to Natasha. Carrie calls him to try to be friends. They meet for lunch, and that's when he tells her. She has a meltdown, but later the two apologize. They go their separate ways. Samantha meets a man whose package is a bit too large even for her. She finds herself missing her ex who had the opposite problem. Miranda sees Steve for the first time since their breakup and runs from him. He confronts her with a house call, inviting her out for a friendly lunch. They sleep together (surprise), deciding they will be friends who have sex. Charlotte sees a horse that looks like one she had as a child, which reminds her of the horrible accident that caused her to leave riding. She decides to get back in the literal saddle and give the sport a second chance.

The grand question here is, "Can you be friends with an ex?" This, I think, depends on the people. I know friends who make it work fine, but others avoid exes like the plague. It's hard to say. To me, the more intriguing question is the one Carrie finds herself preoccupied with: "Why wasn't I the woman for Big?" The answer she and girls come up with actually seems to make some sense for the rest of us, too. They decide that there are two types of women: the simple ones and the complicated ones. Some can be tamed; others run wild and need to be with men who will run with them. (They reference the movie, "The Way We Were" with Barbara Streisand. Samantha has never seen it, which apparently is sacrilegious if you're a thinking, feeling woman. I haven't seen it either. Better get on that.)

Anyway, the theory goes that some men want simple girls, aka they can't handle the complicated, wilder ones. I'm sorry for the one or two men who read this blog, but I have to agree. There are some guys that get scared by anything out of the ordinary, even if that just means having a personality. Sorry, but true. These guys don't like any form of drama at all, whether that be getting angry at them for cheating or just having a life of your own. It's strange, but these men don't seem to mind the "usual" fights over mundane things like watching sports and forgetting to pick up socks, but deeper issues send them into flight mode. I haven't met a lot of these guys (let's face it, they probably all run when they see me coming), but Brad was one such guy.

Remember Brad? The guy who broke up with me right before Hank? Well, here are the reasons I am lumping him into this Man Who Needs Simple Woman category. You can decide if they help to weed out these men from the ones who appreciate complex women.

1. His mother is a preschool teacher. (Yes, I'm judging.)

2. On our first date, when he found out I had been engaged before, he got uncomfortable and joked about running away. There is a double irony here. First, he eventually did just that. Second, he had recently come from an broken engagement himself--one that HE broke off. Go figure.

3. He broke up with me when he was drunk, apparently to avoid real conversation, where I would ask him hard questions like "What are you thinking?" As it was, all he had to was mumble a few "I'm sorry"s into the phone, while I (the complicated woman) got hysterical.

4. He was a jock in high school and never had to work for women. Why would he want to start? 5. His house looked like a Pottery Barn commercial. Even the art was fake.

I'm sure I could go on, but that's a good overview. Yes, I do believe to this day that I was simply too much for him. I say "Fuck" a lot, I love being crazy, and I'm not the type to be happy only being a soccer mom and talking about the weather. I talk about threesomes, for God's sake. Yes, even in the midst of that breakup, I knew things would never work out between Brad and I. Funny thing was that I really didn't want them to. Even though it felt bad to be rejected, I wanted him to find that simple woman who wouldn't make him feel so awkward. I would never be her, and that reality would only have made us both miserable.

Besides, like Carrie, I realized I wanted a man that not only wouldn't be scared of my complexity, but he would thrive on it. Nothing I said would be weird with this guy. He would be up for it all. He wouldn't look at me funny when I got a wild idea in my head. He wouldn't be nervous to introduce me to his parents. In fact, he would think I'm so cool, he'd want to show me off. In short, he'd like me just the way I am. Man, I'm glad I found that guy.

You've heard it said: everything happens for a reason. Sometimes, like with Carrie, it takes the wrong guy introducing you to yourself for you to be able to see who you truly are. Seeing how much it doesn't work with one person gives you the key to understanding how it could work with someone else. It's like Mr. Wrong holds up a mirror in front of you, and you realize that even though he doesn't really like what he sees, you do, and you'll hold out for someone who does too. It's as simple--and as complicated--as that.

Hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 29: Old News

It's official. I cannot not shop. Last week I was browsing for "virtual" shirts, and I made the mistake of visiting Victoria's Secret Online. I deeply suspect that those designers all have degrees in psychology, because the minute I think VS has nothing new or isn't really as great as I thought, Boom! there are fifty new bra tops in awesome colors screaming my name. I bought two. Hank knows. Because of all this (and because it's the month of love), I'm christening this ensemble, "Pink is in the Air."

I'm writing in spurts. Last week, I wrote three days in a row. The push was to get to today's episode, during which Big makes an appearance. But when I watched it, I didn't feel like writing about Big and Carrie. He just seems like an asshole. So, I skipped three days. Now, I'm writing about being in your twenties. I'm on a Big boycott.

Overview. The women rent a summer house in the Hamptons. While there, Charlotte dates a twenty-six-year-old and gets crabs. Samantha looses a PR opportunity to her younger counterpart, but the girl eventually comes crawling to Samantha for help. Carrie has a new suitor (a romantic, kind, and handsome doctor), but she's wary about starting something serious with him. She wonders if he's just good on paper and if she's ready for a relationship. Carrie also runs into Big, back from Paris after his job fell through and with a new, gorgeous, French, twenty-something girlfriend. Miranda's main role is to hold Carrie's hair back when the latter pukes.

Sad. And predictable. But no more about that. On to being twenty. Carrie asks, "Twenty-something girls, friend or foe?" She decides that, overall, they pose the greatest threat to themselves (unless one steals the man you loved, of course). As a twenty-something, I got to thinking about age...

I've always felt old. I don't know why or when exactly it happened, but one day, probably sometime in middle school, I woke up feeling forty. It was likely after being rejected by my umpteenth boy crush. It seemed all of my friends had beautiful, straight hair and lithe figures. I had poofy hair and was slightly chubby. Thus, they were the boy magnets, and I was the best friend.

If I wasn't a hopeless romantic, this probably would have been fine. Instead, I started writing poetry in 7th grade about lost love, breakups, dramatic glances, etc. I guess you could say that's what I still write about. Just over Christmas, I found my old collection. I read them all to Hank, and I couldn't believe my twelve-year-old self had written that stuff. I mean, how could I have known any of that? I had never even gone on a date.

My freshman year in high school, on the other hand, was a revelation. All of the sudden, for no apparent reason, I lost my baby weight and learned the power of hair gel. Older guys wanted to date me, and I was hungry for the attention. I didn't sleep around, but I sure kissed around. It felt good to be experiencing what I had been curious about for years and thought would always be elusive. I became friends with the senior girls on my volleyball team. That first year, I was in heaven. I felt like a big, new world had opened up--one in which I could be anything I wanted.

Two years later, I was over it all. I had dated the hot high school jocks, and they sucked. I started reading Kurt Vonnegut, Ayn Rand, and J. D. Salinger. I pulled away from my more popular friends, embraced my nerdy side, and dreamed of the opportunities that would await me at college--real men and smart professors. When I got wait-listed at Duke, my chances appearing slim, I picked the next-farthest-away-from-Montana school: NYU, the mysterious place where I discovered pizza slices, gay people, and, most important of all, Sex and the City.

Though my life wasn't at all like the characters' lives, their thoughts, feelings, and romantic experiences spoke to me. I felt like I could relate to Miranda's cynicism, to Carrie's humor, and to Charlotte naivity. I admired Samantha's frankness. I loved that they had their own careers and passions. I wanted to be one of those women, and inside, I sort of felt like I was. I thought, "Finally, here are women I can relate to." I was 18.

Today, I realized something important: that I know nothing about being in my mid-thirties or being thirty-something like Carrie and her friends. Why? I'm twenty-seven. I'm not twenty-eight, which I say I am but won't be until later this month. And I'm not almost thirty. I'm twenty-seven. All of the stereotypes that Carrie pins on women my age--bad jobs, unstable relationships, crappy apartments, crippling insecurity--have applied to me at least once in the past seven years. Bad jobs (or no jobs) and insecurity still apply to some extent. Yes, I'm a twenty-something girl. I am the age I am. It's about time I faced that.

True, one of my closest friends is a man in his sixties. Another is a 47-year-old woman in Seattle. Maybe I'm a young, old soul. But there's something about talking with friends my age about issues we're all facing--financial worries, moving in with our boyfriends, having children, starting careers, getting married--that is invaluable. It sure makes me feel less lonely.

So, here's to loving how old you are, however old (or young) that is, and to taking life one day at a time, not one minute to soon.

Hope you'll be back. I will.