The Sex and the City Diet, Round 4: Carrie Bradshaw

The grand finale.

10.30.15
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Being on the Carrie Bradshaw diet is more challenging than I initially believed it would be. Originally, I felt like we had so many similarities, you know? She types on a laptop. I type on a laptop. She lives in a small apartment in New York City and mine is pretty similarly-sized. She spends a lot of time pouring blue cheese dressing over her salads, which I can get down with, and perhaps most saliently, she looks crazy 9 out of 10 times she leaves her closet.

Ditto.

And while, sure, elements of this cultural diet were thrilling to fulfill — I ate a shit ton of pastries, ordered like, six Cosmopolitans (one such bartender asked me where I was from) and spent enough time in coffee shops asking some of life’s most pressing and existential questions (e.g., “Can you make a mistake and miss your fate?”) — I couldn’t help but wonder (see what I did there?) how she did it. You know, maintain that banging figure in spite of the pastries, drink that much vodka without appearing hung over the following morning (except that one time she got a New York Magazine cover) and consume that much coffee without running herself off a bridge. Never mind the brain-wracking (we’re neither romantically challenged, nor are we sluts, Carrie; you don’t *have to* put your single self on a shelf when you’re in a relationship, but it’s advisable lest you want to recreate the big Aidan crash of 2008, and the problem with having money hang in your closet right where you can see it is that you can no longer spend it on things like health insurance), this shit ain’t easy. But here are some measures I took in order to successfully fulfill a day (week?) in her shoes:

1. I bought shoes, then asked my friend for a loan.

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2. I put a flower on my neck and smiled for a photo.

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3. I wore pants with shearling hems.

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(She never actually did this, but I would imagine thought about it.)

4. Every time my husband messaged me (example: “Hey I’m on my way to class”) I wrote back, “Do we need distance to get close?” Please note: I did not cheat on him, though I do reckon him more of an Aidan than a Big.

5. I let my hair dry curly, put a dramatic earring in my left lobe and every time someone complained about the weather, I asked them to put on a sailor hat so I could say, “I can’t have nobody talking shit about my city!” (Then I said to Amelia, my only red-head friend, “Don’t you move to Paris with my ballerina of a boyfriend.” [Note that I paraphrased])

6. Also, here is a text message conversation we had.

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Conclusion: You can’t do Carrie in a week. It takes a lifetime of hard work. So, take it away, Amelia.

*

Gladly.

Bradshaw’s character is as loaded as her own questions. Leandra’s right: you cannot do Carrie in a week.

Although, because I’m competitive, let me level the playing field with Leandra for a moment:

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Here’s me paying homage to her apartment (66 Perry St., stay off the steps); here’s me hitting up Magnolia Bakery for cupcakes.

But twenty-something single writer living in Manhattan who technically works in fashion, has been splashed by bus-water while in a tutu (21st birthday) and once had a guy try to make a real estate commission in the same breath as a break up text or not, I’m nothing like Carrie. (That’s my Hinge bio.) And though we both sit like birds who have to pee while typing, we don’t have a ton in common other than Miranda.

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Deep, deep thoughts happening here.

I say that because everyone thinks they’re a Carrie. She’s a hyperbolized amalgamation of female triumphs, realities and flaws, flushed with the filter of a billion orgasms, glamour and glitter. For as real as Miranda is, Carrie’s a myth. That’s why everyone wants to claim Carrie as their character.

The only person who is actually and truly “a Carrie” is Eloise, as in the character written by Kay Thompson and illustrated by Hilary Knight, except I’d swap the wording: Carrie is an Eloise.

Eloise is child — a stylish one, but arguably, so is Carrie.

Both live in unrealistic apartments when considering their respective professional incomes. Both are prone to tantrums (hi, that time Carrie turned a dude-with-a-Tweetie-Bird-tattoo’s room upside down). Both are bratty; both recover publicly because they’re charming. Both love nothing more than a superfluous accessory and both have a loose definition of what makes a good hat. Eloise and Carrie Bradshaw also both have vivid imaginations that, from time to time, make them rawther mellow dramatic.

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So, great. I pulled a Carrie and drew a parallel between her and another person for the sake of an article. But what about the actual Carrie Bradshaw diet?

I ate an entire issue of Vogue. Carrie said it fed her better than dinner (season 4, episode 2).

And Eloise, age six, simply confirmed it tasted better than paste.

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