By Alyssa Velazquez
Elm Staff Writer
It is no secret that I am a Sex and the City-holic. As an aficionada and self-confessed junkie, I feel the need to express to you, my readers, the extent of my addiction.
For starters, I own every season. I have numerous knock-off outfits from both the series and movie franchise (courtesy of China). My alert for a text message on my cellular device is the Sex and the City instrumental intro, and for my twenty-first birthday, my mother bought us two tickets for a themed bus tour of New York City entitled: The Sex and the City Tour.
To go even further, I own Sex and the City jewelry and all the books by Candace Bushnell, the writer and inspiration for the HBO series. I have commercial SATC ornaments, frequently make Sex and the City references if I find myself in an “ almost Carrie Bradshaw” moment, and the title of this very column is homage to the first relationship writer that I believed had something worthwhile and innovative to share with the majority single population.
Selective friends believe I have constructed an idealistic buffer to the outside world, and the majority of my family, having known me since before birth, is convinced that buffer has amassed itself into the size of a fortress, architecturally designed entirely out of rose-colored glass; ideal for a fragile, unrealistic, and naïve existence. In defense of these accusations, I do manage to live my life without hitting my DVD collection every day, or every week for that matter, nor do I see a pink-tinted world, and the foundation of my Carrie mimicry does not extend beyond her occupation and wardrobe.
This past weekend, over Thanksgiving break, I was able to have a long lunch with a close friend who, due to conflicting schedules, I had not seen for over half a year. Not only is he a truly wonderful human being, he would be the driver of a Sex and the City bandwagon if there were ever a need for one. I knew without a doubt that the lunch held the potential for plenty of gossip, boys, dessert, and Sex and the City references.
During the first course, as I was in the process of dishing on the newest developments with an ex who wants to suddenly enter back into my life–despite lack of any substantial communication over the past four years–my remarkably intuitive male Carrie counter-part blurts out: “You know he’s never going to go away. You know that right? He’s your Big.”
Was he my Big? Is he my very own Mr. Big? What did that statement even mean? Was he, despite the fact that we had called it quits a very long time ago, the one who would close my relationship season?
Does everyone have a Mr. Big? If so, regardless of whether or not he was our first love, does he provide us with a guaranteed six-year conclusion? Or does this one person, the “big” one, operate in the capacity of psychological torment while we relentlessly try to find the “perfect, sweet, and sensitive” Aidan?
Perhaps my very insightful friend misused the reference and, despite his usual on-target perceptions, had a lapse of judgment. This particular ex was not my Big nor was he an Aidan. He was merely an ex.
What can a Mr. Big do to a girl’s love life? What does a Mr. Big do to a girl’s love life?
The danger in the Mr. Big theory is very much like the danger we run into with the whole “the one” concept. Not only is it binding, it’s so final that free will and thought flee the room and we’re left despondent, alone, and worst of all: expectant.
In Sex and The City, Carrie and Big ended up together because the fans wrote endlessly to the network, demanding that they didn’t let Mr. Big “fly away.” Literally thousands of red balloons arrived at HBO studios with that exact tagline. The writers, still debating on the end of Carrie’s television story, played with the concept of her staying in Paris with the Russian. A more sober alternate ending was that she would end up alone, a single gal in New York taking on the Big Apple. It was ultimately the fans that changed their scripts.
I don’t know if my ex is my Big, I don’t know if any of my exes are a Mr. Big, but I’ve decided I’m not going to stay stagnant and wait around to find out. If fellow SATC fans can decide the fate of the product of a million dollar Media Corporation, I can dictate to a certain extent my own love life.
Being a Carrie? That’s scripted. But finding a Mr. Big, rather than expecting one? Now that’s larger than life.