sex and the city
Confessions may be in order. I took Winnie and her friend to see Sex and the City yesterday, and I inhaled.
As gratuitous sex goes, it was a pretty mild offering. The fairy tale offering of happy ever after, however, was over the top. As my colleague said, “it leaves you with the impression that the two choices in life are to find the love of your life or be alone.”
Given that I enjoyed the series immensely (at least the belated Blockbuster version), cotton candy or no I was destined to see this one on the big screen. Despite the predictability, my 3rd quarter bathroom dash was as quick as ever, fearful as I was that I might miss a drop of candy.
Occasional pieces of chocolate, like good red wine, can be delectable and do not on their own lead to the cardiac surgeon. Indulgence in an afternoon matinee does not necessitate the confessional.
Indulging in this particular candy, however, without a chaser of something substantive can erode one’s sense of self-confidence. As Samantha’s friends express shock at her “gut”, subliminally we are all hearing that the only acceptable size is emaciated. Any hint of curvature is a sign of emotional weakness.
Although Carrie has now apparently kicked the cigarette habit, each encounter with stress necessitates an open bottle and a new cocktail. Worth is measured with jewels, waxes, and handbags; shame in bodily functions.
I wonder at the basic character flaw that allows me to enjoy something so fundamentally at odds with my professed worldview.
Given that the messages of this flick are at odds with almost everything I claim to believe, why did I inhale? I new what it would be. I could have said no. I could have dropped them off at the door. I could have hung out at the video games. I could have at least disapproved. But no. I loved every minute.
The dilemma, as it unfolds, is tragically simple. The more I inhale the candy, the less satisfied I am with life. Entranced with the drama, I find myself clinging to the speeding train of life. I fantasize about finding a way into the safety of the interior, sometimes even of finding the engine room. As I try to hold on, even the caboose looks amazingly appealing.
Clinging to the train, my goal is to find a way in.
But what if the train itself is the problem? What if the spirit’s call is to the bike trail or the walking path? Perhaps the calm I crave is not to be found on OR in this train. Maybe the peace that passes understanding is not found with happy ever after’s, gourmet bags, and best selling books. Could it be that my imbibing at the cinema only perpetuates my grip on a train that offers no life?
And so to the confessional I head. The good news, though, is that I did succumb at least long enough to have something juicy of which to repent.
Dear Pastor Katy,
I am grateful to have come upon your blog. I appreciate the articulation, sensitivity and intelligence with which you write.
I saw the movie Sex and the City a couple days ago, as well; with my oldest daughter, age 23. Interesting, I also feel that I must justify it. Our electric power was out at home due to storms and we needed a way to escape the mid day heat. Yes, that’s it. We needed reprieve from our long suffering due to lack of electronic media and air conditioning. The lure had nothing to do with salty buttered fingers in darkness and voyeuristic tendencies.
The lobby of the theater was packed with groups of forty-somethings; all women. I didn’t expect to see many men but I was surprised to see such a cult following of women. For me, the fairy-tale is not about finding romantic love, but finding friendship the way it is portrayed in media. The audience was totally interactive during the whole movie. I couldn’t prove this (because it was too dark) but I believe that these groups of women were all wearing high heels and sitting with arms linked like small army’s of four. Every gasp and giggle was perfectly choreographed within the group. When the main character first appeared on her wedding day with the bird on her head the crowd simultaneously oo-ed and ah-ed. My daughter and I shot each other a, you’ve got to be kidding me, look; which she somehow must have inherited from her father.
I’m led to believe that there is a price to pay for the luxury of this sort of friendship. The writers would have us believe that these are independent women whose individuality glues them together. I’m not sure I believe that. In my limited experience the price of admittance to any such group is lack of individuality or the willingness to forgo certain opinions, convictions or beliefs. I blame my lack of hope on living in a ‘too-small town’ and attending a ‘too conservative church’. Maybe if I move to a big city or run in high heels more often, or both, I would be privy to this sort of friendship.
I, too, watch the train speed by. Everybody on it seems to be having so much more fun than I. Watching them have fun just makes me feel worse about my own life, yet, I can’t seem to come up with the price of admission.
June 9th, 2008 at 10:35 am