I don't live in New York City, and I'm not married to Mr. Big. (Aiden is more my type.) I'm no longer young and I'm definitely not chic. I'm not tall and thin and I don't dress in avant garde, glitzy designer fashions. I certainly don't wear four inch Manolo Blahnik (Who is he anyway?) heels. I'm not surrounded by eccentric friends. (Or perhaps I should say: not all my friends are eccentric) .
All-in-all, one might conclude that I don't have much in common with Carrie Bradshaw, the skilled writer and ultra stylish New Yorker of "Sex in the City."
But maybe there is more to this comparison than first meets the eye.
In the recent movie, "Sex in the City, Part 2," Carrie begins to face the reality of married life with Mr. Big. Late night upscale dining and a steady diet of the New York City cultural scene have worn thin with him. Her reality is that life style changes may be in order.
While I've never lived in New York City, I did trade the art, theatre and restaurants that Washington, D.C. offers in our move to South Carolina. But Carrie is evolving and discovering, as we all have, that there are attributes to marriage not attainable from night life and museum openings. On the spectrum of life satisfaction, she is moving toward Jane Austen's observation, "There is nothing like staying home for real comfort."
Carrie and I are definitely alike in another way, too. Carrie does not want to cook and neither do I. The contrast comes in the vastly different amount of time it took to discover this. Me, 42 years; Carrie, two years. (Am I a slow learner?)
For Carrie, the solution to her dilemma is dining out (earlier) and the ample supply of New York City's carry outs. My solution is the same even though I live in the uncosmopolitan rural South.
But I feel most like Carrie when I sit down at my computer to write. Carrie is an observer of life and relationships.
She has pondered searching questions including: how dangerous is an open heart? And, when did we stop being free to be ourselves?
I have asked why we fail to appreciate the people in our lives until they're gone, and how does one handle too much togetherness with one's spouse?
She tries to unlock the minor mysteries of life, as do I. For example, remember the oh-so-carefully-planned Oreo frog cookies that my granddaughters wouldn't eat? What about the shopping excursion for ballet shoes when Kaylin flipped for flip flops instead? Or the ode I wrote to my tweezers when I realized I couldn't live without them?
Carrie writes spoofs about life in New York City. My spoofs have compared all-arrangements-made-for-you foreign travel as a first step toward the no-responsibilities, no-decision making of assisted living.
Whereas she reflects on thirty-somethings "livin'-the-lifestyle" New Yorkers, I write about a wider age range and the wisdom gained from the journey of life. Carrie speaks for the up-scale professional New Yorker. I speak for living-life-to-the-fullest seniors whose refrain is: "Phew! I made it to old age!"
Carrie writes for her audience. I write for mine. She has her readers. I have mine. Perhaps we are more alike than first meets the eye.
Wanda Lane lives in Sun City Hilton Head.