The series was never was for me. The sex scenes outrageous, Sarah Jessica-Parker’s outfits even moreso. But if there’s one thing SJP’s character gets right, it’s catching up with her girlfriends.
The other day my own girlfriend was yelling over the background noise into her mobile and hence directly into my ear, “Ani!! We have been waiting for you at the popcorn queue!! Where the hell are YOU??!” and there I was…standing, mobile perched between shoulder and head, a different handbag in each hand, and face so full of guilt, Sally might as well have been right there in front of me, to catch me red-handed with sale stock instead of in front of the cinema where I’d promised.
Never mind the fact that she was told I was already on the way there. I had to make a decision fast: red heavily discounted pleather modelled on the new ‘forget Granny, go Nicole Ritchie’ ridiculously shoulder-breakingly big style, or a charcoal non-discounted leather and unabashedly sensible bag. Screw it. I thought. No, I did not buy one. Nor did I buy both, which I shamefully admit is the decision-making method I have been known to resort to when attempting to thus, decision-make.
If there’s another thing those New York girls know what to do, is shopping – for the right one.
And so, while running frantically through the shopping centre, dodging through late night female shoppers and their spouses in tow, I thought, ‘Nope…just like the fantastical pair of jeans I’m waiting for, the perfect handbag is going to choose me. Choose ME damn it. And when it calls out my name, and begs me to not leave the department store without it, that’s when I’ll bring out Little Miss VISA.
Darn it. That perfect handbag is going to find ME…it will be made of the finest handcrafted leather, so soft that fingers will long to remain close to its touch. There will be pockets and compartments and a deepness to it that didn’t swallow my arm along with my multivitamins, but enough to hold my precious things safe. It will be comfortable to wear and hold close. It will smell divine, the way good handbags should.
That’s when it hit me. Handbags. Jeans. Perfume. Men. I was sick and tired of looking. Had I been looking? No. I rephrase. I was sick and tired of putting up with the ones that were available to me.
I shared this new idea with one of my friends.
“It’s not that I’m being picky per se-eeeeeee…” I spoke slowly and watched her facial expression carefully, as this friend was known for being more than honest with me. I think it’s called ‘being frank.’
“It’s just that I think I’ve realised that I’ve got better things to do in my life than be on the constant look out for that perfect one. You know…THE one! I mean, why not wait for him to find me!!”
“There’s nothing spectacular in what you’re saying Ani,” she replied matter-of-factly picking expertly at the remains of her fried chicken wing. “And I say GOOD ON YOU GIRL! Mind you, you could be waiting a long time…but hey, we’re still young!”
Satisfied that this latest revelation of mine had passed the approval of one of my closest friends. I left the topic at that. Still, I couldn’t help but internalise that ‘Humph’ I felt at the words ‘we’re still young’. Easy for you to say, I thought. You don’t belong to a community where everyone your age is married, expecting, or about to do either one. But let’s leave this particular gripe for another blogspot.
I must confess. On the way through an airport lounge, a beauty products store drew me in with its warm lights, orange and blue undertones, and heavenly organic fragrances emanating – right across from my departing Gate 9 – oh, how convenient. With passengers already boarding on my flight, I only had enough time to march through quickly and check out the new perfume range before spraying the nicest smelling one as a tiny spiff on my wrist with not much thought.
The whole weekend I was away interstate, it lingered. The whole time I was back home in Sydney, at work, driving to places, going out, the scent reminded me it was there. It wanted me…and quite frankly, by the end of the week, I wanted IT!
After much tossing (of that particular trenchcoat, on and off) and turning (of my left wrist so I could smell the scent), it was decided. After years of gifted fragrances and trendy scents that one in three high school girls owned, I had chosen my Eau de Parfum.
And what of playing the waiting game for the right man? Or rather, ridding your life of games altogether and just getting on with your own albeit single life until, God-willing of course, your partner-to-be appears only to say “I want to be with you because you are the one wonderful being I want to spend the rest of my life with”.
Look, I’m not saying this is a foolproof way of landing your man if that’s what you unattached girls are thinking. I couldn’t even confirm that next month I myself will still want to be holding on for my Prince Charming! I’m merely reminding us all of a way it may happen because all this shopping really does my head in. How many times do we have to sit through that awkward introduction of that ‘oh so wonderful friend of a friend’s cousin’s sister-in-law’s neighbour’s SON who would get along just splendid with you’? Or get exasperated that it’s been the ninth wedding/dinner party/National Day concert/baby shower that month that you didn’t meet one single single semi-decent man? I don’t know about you, but I barely have the time for my favourite family and friends let alone the energy to expend on a mission for Mr. Right.
Is he going to appear if we are on the constant search? Or worse yet, will he magically transform out of the one we are considering being with but who has no ambition nor commitment nor respect for us? Uh uh. Sorry darl. No magic dust is going to change that frog.
After all, if there’s one thing the Sex and the City girls know what to do, it’s that finding the best man comes second to finding my best self.
Look we all succumb once in a while. I still head straight for the blue spectrum of jeans racks; whether in an expensive clothes boutique or a second-hand store, whether I have a half-day to shop or ten minutes left on my lunch break, armed with that tiny spark of hope that THAT pair which were made for me are there. It will not be classed a ‘skinny jean’ or be so snug as to cut off my circulation. It will give where it’s meant to give, but sturdy enough to keep its shape. It will sit in that in-between spot – so DARN difficult for jeans manufacturers to architect! – not so low as to encourage a game of butt-peek-a-boo, not so high as to limit food ingestion. This pair of jeans that I dream of will make me look and feel mighty good!
And you know what ladies? Yes, I may NEVER find this pair. I have resigned to this fact - after first wrestling it with much strength, copping a few punches, jabbing it a good one square on the jaw, and then losing to a 7-round total knock out. This fact being that this perfect pair of jeans may indeed remain an unreachable, fantastimagical part of my dreams.
But as a conclusion on this search for jeans and other delightful items: for now, that’s ok. Much, much later down the track, I just hope to find a bloody good tailor.
