So I made it to see Sex and the City 2 with mom this weekend. They gave her the senior discount, which was amusing on many levels, mostly because I'd just finished telling her that they'd never buy her as a senior. The popcorn was yummy, the seats were comfortable, and as for the movie? What can I say?
I love Sex and the City. Love it. I am completely and totally attracted to Chris Noth as Mr. Big, and I want Carrie's group of friends. Samantha is my favorite, but let's face it, if I were going to BE one of the SATC girls, I would be the overly analytical writer.
Here's the thing, though. They would never, EVER, let me in. I would be one of those people that Carrie makes fun of. Among that group of people, I would be a marvel. And I know this. And I accept it. (Really) But still... there's a part of me that kind of wishes I could tag along with Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte.
The rest of me tells that part to shut up and quit being stupid on a pretty much daily basis. The rest of me knows what it's talking about. Because the rest of me knows these things:
I will never be the kind of girl for whom going out on the town seven nights a week is enjoyable. I will never really like to party. I will never have a good time in a crowd of people. I will never like wearing uncomfortable shoes to walk around a city. I will never be comfortable wearing clothes that look as if they were picked out in the dark.
And while we're on those shoes? I will never be the kind of girl for whom $400 is an acceptable amount of money to spend on a pair of shoes? I might admire the shoes. I might even like the shoes. But to spend that kind of money on them? That's half my rent. Or a heck of a lot of books. Or computer parts. Or a new camera lens.
The rest of me knows all of this, and it accepts it, and embraces it. The rest of me is the kind of girl who enjoys reading, dominoes, Tetris, and spending time with a three-year-old.
But that little part?
Sometimes, that little part wishes that diamonds and shoes WERE a part of my daily life. The rest of me gets a daily life filled with baby spit-up, doggie poop bags, and laundry. That little part of me wishes that the songs stuck in my head were the latest ones I had heard premiered at some glamorous show. The rest of me gets songs from Hooked on Phonics about a Big, Big Pig.
All of that said, I'd never be happy there. As invested as I am in Carrie and Big, Miranda and Steve, Charlotte and Harry, and Samantha... it isn't me. And part of me is sad about that. But the rest of me? It's too busy folding laundry, doing school work, and planning craft projects for the three-year-old to care.
*The Little Part of Bobs