When I was in high school, all my girlfriends and I would have DVD marathons of Sex and the City. We thought it was the most “relatable” show on TV as we struggled with boyfriends and the garden variety of school issues. We’d see ourselves in the various characters. I was unofficially dubbed Carrie because we were both writers. But I preferred being Miranda for her sharp tongue and wit.
By the end of the Sex and the City, I really hated Carried. I thought she made some horrible life decisions. It really angered me that this was supposed to be the mirror that reflected our own lives. When in truth it did quite the opposite.
We were teenagers in the Bay Area. Some of us had jobs. Some of us were artists. We didn’t buy expensive shoes. Our social gatherings never rotated around brunch.
The closest thing we had to that was Lovejoy’s teahouse on Church street in San Francisco.
By the time GIRLS came around in 2012, I was intrigued. I was drawn in under the assumption that this was a “realistic” version of what I had missed in Sex and the City. My hopes were that GIRLS was delivering a version of life turned to art that I had only seen in shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer.