My friend Gina came to visit recently with her husband Brian, two kids and dog in tow. While we sat outside devouring pizza, Brian commented on how in his mind, I epitomized the Sex and the City life and Carrie in particular. I mumbled through a response of some sort, but my thoughts returned to the comment less than twelve hours later, when we were again sitting outside – but this time under the illuminating influence of two glasses of pinot grigio.

I am petite with curly hair and a prominent nose, with a fondness for cocktails about town. But outside of the obvious, I don’t know why Brian would lump us together. I’d rather travel than buy shoes; I’m financially responsible, and I would never throw myself at someone who rejected me in Mr. Big’s special way.  All women share traits with Carrie; that is how the character was developed. Every woman can relate to her in some way.

I now live in a college town in the mountainside, and Brian’s observation took me back to a world that seems very much out of my reach. Mind you, much like Carrie at Aidan’s upstate getaway, I didn’t adjust to the country very well. I had to learn to drive. And to use those new skills to drive into strip malls. And after years of calling the super for clogged toilets, I had to learn about drywall and weeding and gutters. But mostly, I had to learn to live without girlfriends.

Which takes me back to Carrie & Co. I put myself in Brian’s shoes and tried to remember our interactions through his eyes. Every other Friday night, a call to his wife asking her to put on a great dress and come out for drinks. And by the fourth such call, his wife would be on her way into the city. She would roll home the next morning at 7am with tales for Brian of how she wasn’t going to stay out so late, but I wanted to peek into some new lounge; once we got to the venue, I convinced her to dance to my favorite remixed tune, and before we knew it, more friends showed up, and we all ended up on my living room floor eating chicken shwarmas and grape leaves over hours of nostalgia.

What Carrie and I have in common is a love of relationships. I treasure my relationship with my city of choice, and I am unrecognizable without it. My best self comes out in the city, and when I am far away from it, my spirit languishes – a bit dramatic, but after four and a half years trying to be someone else, it appears to be the truth.

And what makes me, and many other women, real-life Carries?  Our friendships. The night at a trendy lounge with the exotic cocktails and an overdose of shimmery outfits is just pretentious, unless you have your arm candy of great friends to giggle with and join in on the façade. These people rejoice in the handsome Brit who buys you a drink. And they’ll go home with you and serve up Ben & Jerry’s when it turns out he is gay. When you make the same mistake you made before, they won’t judge you. And that is why I’ll take Brian’s words as the highest compliment – because I am my girlfriends’ friend.

Dear Sir:

Enclosed is my biodata in response to your Matrimonial ad in India Abroad. Your ad spoke to me with its emphasis on values and traits that I too hold in high regard.

I am happy to be able to comply with your preference for candidates with scientific backgrounds.  Undoubtedly, the practical knowledge and technical skills of my political science degree laid out a clear, pragmatic career path.   My parents comment daily on the usefulness of my studies.

With this academic background and my language proficiencies, it is not surprising I became an advertising strategist.  Advertising is a field with a distinguished history in this country, recognized for its unrelenting standards and integrity.  Most notably, it provides Americans with their code of conduct.  At parties, I am often cornered by guests who enthusiastically shower me with their thoughts on the industry.

I was quite moved to read that you will not prohibit a well-suited match for reasons of caste.*  I’ve worked very hard throughout my life at building a long, racially diverse list of ex-boyfriends that matches Equal Employment and Opportunity Commission standards.  After all, as immigrants, we must maximize our contribution to the melting pot.  My best friend educated me greatly in this, and I hope you might be able to meet him, along with his husband, some day.

As to my talents in the arts, I hold the post of beverage administrator in my neighborhood association, having shown a knack from a young age.   I proceeded to excel in Manhattan’s elite training ground, and am currently exploring more formal coursework.  Similarly, I cultivated freestyle dance over the years at abandoned warehouses worldwide.  This allowed me to successfully secure Very Important Person entry to discerning social venues.  This global network would surely enhance any marital relationship.

With these details, you have some preliminary insights into my background.  I am available at any time for an in-person meeting.  I ask that you kindly provide some advance notice for visa preparations, as I do not hold a green card.

I eagerly await your positive response.

Kind regards.

To celebrate Larry’s birthday I made burgers.  Well done without any condiments.  Once they were cooked on the skillet, I chopped them up into small bites, before tossing them into a bowl of chicken broth and rice.  Topped with Scooby Snacks, and it was a three-legged hound’s delight.
This is the life of a dog’s human mother.  This year Larry’s birthday also coincides with my determination to stop wearing the same pair of jeans picked up off the floor and eliminate my countryside funk.  I will look a different part every day, rather than the same part of the freelancer + disgruntled homemaker.  Perhaps it’s the fact that I know my day doesn’t have a built-in caramel macchiato any more, or mandatory Monday morning status meeting, or the surprise after-work cocktails.  Regardless, it is much easier to wear whatever is clean, but still on the ground for some reason, and not put much thought into it.  Even if no one is to see me, I’ve decided to unearth my style – if for no reason, than to say, I have a purpose when I wake up in the morning.  Not sure what it is exactly, but I’m determined to find it.
I choose skinny jeans because they make me feel hip.  A white wife-beater because it matches nearly everything.  And a short-sleeve plaid jacket that is practical only in Spring.  And my suede ballet flats because they seem to extend my jeans and make me feel long and lithe…and young.
But it is still Larry’s birthday, so I am taking him to the dog park with the wading stream behind it.  He also needs some socialization, so it is a multi-purpose activity.  The park has been mowed and cleaned up of poo, which brings me great happiness, as I don’t have to race after my other dog to pick poo out of his mouth.  All this great food in the world, and Pablo has an affinity for excrement.   Playtime only lasts a few minutes for these two, before Larry stands impatiently by the gate for stream-wading time.  We walk down to the stream, he jumps in for a second and laps up some water before jumping back out.  That’s it.  I’ve driven across town to give my dog three seconds of pleasure.   And Pablo hates water, so he can’t even be counted in as a beneficiary of my efforts.
We make our way through the wooded trails that are still muddy from the previous week’s rains.  At a clearing I look down at my shoes and realize the left one has a dried mud streak across the top, but that’s all the damage.  Not bad.   I adjust my cool blue sunglasses from Bangkok.  I am styling, even in the woods of central Virginia.  The community garden plots are starting to flourish, but I no longer eye them with longing as I used to; I am now self-aware enough to confirm I am not a nurturer.
We reach a slightly damp patch of grass, and I step on it confidently.  Immediately, my leg sinks right in…up to my calf.  I screech and drag it out and leap to the other side, as my dogs graciously do the same.  My skinny jeans are dipped in mud, and my first thoughts are to rush to the car and ball up my pants and toss them into a plastic bag for an emergency washing.  That would indeed involve driving without pants.  I stare at my shoes – the faux alligator bow is unrecognizable and looks like a big clump of, well, poo.  I knew I should have invested in that infomercial suede cleaner.  I squish and squash my way to some asphalt.  The car is to the left.  Pablo stands squinting into the sun, as Larry pulls to the right, eager to return to the trail.  I follow him; it is his birthday after all.

I went on an interview the other day.  Black pinstripe suit, stylish flat shoes, blouse with a slight amount of color, leather purse, straight tamed hair, neutral lipcolor.  In one of the hippest industries around, I was the square.  Corporate, safe, reliable.  Some of my professional reputation did depend on those traits, but did I really need to emit the image at all times?

I decided suddenly to wear earrings.  Not my usual unnoticeable studs.  Real earrings, the kind that actual women wear.  With a dangle even.  Considering the rest of my dress was as revolutionary as apple pie in a diner, this was my tiny statement that I was more than a resume.  That in human terms, I fit in quite well into my chosen profession, and somehow became friends with trendy hipsters and stodgy company partners alike.  That over thirteen years in the field, I had proven my abilities and was now self-employed; and while not quite brave enough to wear D&G jeans to a meeting, like many colleagues, I had earned the right to a piece of jewelry.

My meeting was for a 2-month long project of moderate interest to me, and I would work remotely from my home office.  I had indeed psycho-analyzed my earrings so intensely for a project of this stature.  But that’s the professional I am.  In the end, that light swoosh of confidence near my hairline made me feel, at nearly 40 years of age, that I might be good at my job.