Carrie Bradshaw, you sly bitch.
Why I hate my hero for making me move to NYC.
I know that everyone has an opinion about Carrie Bradshaw, and guess what. So do I. Most of us (unless you’re my dad) know Carrie. Her, with her iron abs, luxuriant blonde mane and crack whipper of a wit, clip clapping down the streets of New York City in a pair of shoes that every journalist knows is actually humanly impossible to afford.
I, like so many other fluffy young girls in the past two decades of human existence have been enthralled to a point of jaw-gaping desperation by the shining, mesmerizing charisma of Carrie Bradshaw and her group of sweet talkin’ broads with dynamite hair. Getting told that you were a Carrie in my teen years was basically the same as telling a smug and panting politician that they had your vote in the state election. Orgasmic.
I have been told that I am a Carrie exactly twice in my life, but when I was in high school I was told that I was a Charlotte. Obviously, being told that you’re a Charlotte is akin to being described as ‘nice’, which is pure, cold social death – and you can bet your bottom dollar that I took it that way. Now though, I watch my little vintage Sex and the City clips and I think fuck me, Carrie is actually an abominably selfish twat and Charlotte actually kinda has her shit together (the whole desperate medieval damsel in tweed thing aside, of course).
The truth is, I hate Carrie Bradshaw, principally because she is a childish disaster wrapped up in unrealistically cool clothes, but also because I am jealous that she made it as a writer (with abs) in New York City. If you didn’t know, I too, am a ‘writer’, who as I write this, am in New York City – but unlike Carrie Bradshaw, I am not a successful newspaper columnist, and I cannot afford a single Cosmopolitan cocktail ever, period.
(Actually – maybe on tap, somewhere in the depths of Brooklyn – but only on a special occasion, like a Tuesday night).
It’s clearly a path well trodden, the: ‘wtf Carrie you sold me a dream of being a sexy little writer in the big apple and now I am broke, desperate and alone’ path, but now that I am on the path, I can’t help but WONDER why I fell for such an elaborate and clearly viscous lie.
Also, I know that I’m not alone because trying to apply for a job as a writer in New York City is kind of like doing a Lord of The Rings-esque battle with an invisible horde of other imaginary, ghosty people who also watched Sex and the City all night in high school, and also have read Nora Ephron, and who also have a dream, etc, etc.
Sometimes I hate having dreams, and I promise I’m not being melodramatic when I say that. Cute little daydreams of being a creative in a post-capitalist dystopia don’t hit quite the same as they did in the 60s when all you needed was a can-do attitude, a one-way ticket to New York City and a cool mullet. Fml.
Anyways, in case you’re curious about what I’m talking about – I left Sydney in the dying days of 2023 in the hopes of clip clopping along the heady streets of NYC like the girl boss I was told I would immediately become by literally every piece of media targeted to young women aged 15-35, quite literally ever.
Honestly, I knew it was ridiculous before I even left Australia. I used to joke about it, like the flippant little deluded bitch I know I am.
“Haha!” I’d say. “Yes, I am moving to New York City with but one suitcase, and a head full of dreams!” Actually, a sidenote on that is that I recently watched Timothée Chalamet sing that exact sentence in a harrowing purple jacket in Wonka and I wanted to throw up all over myself, and then all over Timothée Chalamet. How dare they turn my cute little delusions into a catchy show tune. It’s too much.
Plus, little Willy Wonka has a magic hat that gives him chocolate on tap, in addition to white male privilege that allows him to happily sleep on a park bench without fearing for his life when the going gets tough. Also, the man clearly isn’t troubled by the fact that he owns just one, totally seasonally inappropriate outfit. He’s free, I guess.
As for me – all my summer clothes are packed away in my mum’s attic on the other side of the world, and I only own one pair of green boots that I (coincidentally!) actually did throw up on several weeks ago when I drank two lethal goblets of green margaritas that were the same exact size as a healthy newborn baby’s head. Carrie Bradshaw would never (wear green boots). I’ve cleaned them now, don’t worry.
Anyway, I digress. The point is that Carrie Bradshaw is a sly bitch because she convinced me to move to New York City and follow my dreams.
If I had to summarize it down, here are the 5 unforgivable things that Carrie Bradshaw has done to me:
Didn’t tell me that I wouldn’t be able to afford to live alone in a spacious studio in Manhattan while being paid exactly nothing.
Did not disclose that on an average day on any NYC subway, sighting a human shit is 80% more likely than not.
Actual, live footage of me trying to withstand the winds of change and NYC’s evils. Did not inform that upon moving to NYC I would not become sensual, writerly legend but would rather spend most waking hours doom scrolling LINKEDIN and begging strangers to get a coffee with me.
Failed to mention that after five months of unemployment, friendlessness and subzero temperatures, I would shape shift into an actual goblin who shuffles out of bed in a way violently unbecoming of a woman in her twenties.
Turn down perfect earth god for evil finance bro who dies on Peleton.
Ultimately, I guess I just want to say that Carrie Bradshaw and I have a long, complex relationship that she doesn’t know about, and that’s okay. If I met her, I’d still fangirl so much that she’d probably write some kind of disparaging column about sad twenty-something Australians who move to New York City without a plan. And, honestly - I don’t blame her. Maybe I would too.
Moving to New York City in the middle of winter when you don’t have a job, and literally don’t know a single person is also something that sounds really good when you’re rich, successful and are a) writing your memoir, or b) giving a little self-satisfied speech to a group of high school students – but less good when you’re actually living it.
I know that if I am lucky enough to make it out of NYC and turn eighty years old, I will lie back on my little pink love seat (that I’ll obviously own), eat a tiny cream cake (that I’ll obviously have on tap), pat my little hound named Olivia Newtown John (who will obviously be hopelessly devoted to me) and smile a teeny, happy smile because in 2024, my 27 year old self cried more than thrice a week on the streets of New York, and that, my friends, is kind of a fun a plot line.
In any case, I still have a little bit of hope that as the days go on, my time in the city of dreams, dead rats and human shit will straighten out and include at least one fancy brunch in Manhattan with a snazzy group of cool mates.
In the meantime, I will comfort myself by looking at what Substack’s AI image generator created when I typed in ‘Carrie Bradshaw’. You’re welcome.
