When Your Sister is the Real Life Carrie Bradshaw
- Miss S
- Aug 31, 2015
- 8 min read
This blog post was written by a Guest Writer, none other than my sister. She is a Criminology and International Relations student, looks like a Victoria's Secret Model off-duty and plays the most important role of all as my main relationship advisor. Thanks S. Love your work.
As I put down the phone for the tenth time in the last 48 hours, I sigh with a hint of exasperation. Man, I love my sister, but she got more issues than Harper’s Bazaar. You’d think as a Dating Blogger, she might actually have some form of expertise on the art of love, flirtation, courtship and everything in between. Yet, here I am, her 19 year old sister who’s idea of a relationship involves Netflix, my couch and a pack of Cadbury Blackforest chocolate (I got my life right) giving the so called ‘expert’ advice on what it means when a man is flirting with her? For a girl who grew up taking love lessons from Sex & the City, how can she be so, so clueless?
For the record, if we’re going to use Sex & the City as the foundation for this blog, I just want to let you know, I am a Miranda through-and-through. Basically a cynic, with about 4% of my being made up of a practical romantic. Please note, this is not to be confused with normal romantics. You know the ones who think that Katherine Heigl movies are an accurate depiction of real life? For one, in real life, you do not end up with the arrogant-but-actually-a-super-nice-hot guy after months of witty banter. Mostly because he doesn’t actually exist but also because reality doesn’t actually work like a romantic comedy. Sure, Katherine Heigl may always get her man in the end, but do you know what do we get out in the real world? Arrested, that’s what. Apparently when ordinary people run to the airport after someone they love and try to stop them from getting on a plane to the other side of the world, it’s called ‘harassment and stalking’. Whatever, dumb rules.
See, the Mirandas of the world understand this. We are smart. We lock our hearts up tightly in our chest, and make you work very, very hard to earn every small piece, bit by bit. Yes, I know, it sounds like we have serious issues, trust me I understand. But if you ask me, it’s really the Carrie Bradshaws of the world that I worry about. What gives me the right to say this? Because my sister is a Carrie. And boy, is she a Carrie.
Don’t get me wrong, Carrie Bradshaw is an icon and an absolute celluloid legend in her own right. She’s independent and fabulous, always has $400 shoes on her feet, often leaves the house without a bra on (the 90s were such different times). She exerts a kind of ‘Je ne sais quoi’ confidence as her most fashionable accessory and is a great source of inspiration for many women around the world. The only problem is, once you scratch beneath the surface of even her sparkliest Manolos, you get a very different woman.
Everyone is entitled to their flaws; I mean nobody’s perfect (except maybe Ian Somerhalder. Smoking hot and saves animals? Can’t beat that). But when it comes to Carrie, perhaps her most obviously fatal flaw is that she loves Mr. Big. Hey people, I love John Preston as much as the next guy. He’s tall, dark and handsome, not to mention super rich and smooth as eff. He’s pretty much the only guy that can handle the creativity let’s be honest, the pure crazy that is Carrie’s personality. But THAT there is my problem. You see, as devoted fans of the show, we get so swept up in Carrie’s world of Vera Wang wedding dresses and horse carriage rides, that we forget her perfect Mr. Big was actually kind a Big jerk (see what I did there?)
I know I’m not the first person to say this and I’m not going to be the last. But just to prove my point, let’s take a look at some of his greatest hits, shall we? There was that time he wanted Carrie to ‘move to Paris for herself’ instead of him, because he was a major commitment phobe. I mean, she bought you a Big Mac, man. Get it together. Or how about that time Carrie found herself cheating on Aidan, the nicest boyfriend to have ever lived, with Big, who happened to be married at the time? Or there’s my favourite memory of when our beloved Big left her at the altar, crushing her heart into a million pieces of Swarovski diamonds. Yep, as you can see, good times all around. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know JP got BIG issues.
And the worst part is, as much us Mirandas and Charlottes of the world yell about their poor judgement and flash warning signs in her face, the Carries of the world always have the same excuse for this behaviour.
‘The relationship just works like that. You won’t understand.’
Oh lordy. If I had a dollar for every time my own sister said that me about her love life dilemmas, I’d have enough money to buy some pretty damn expensive earphones so I could block out the sound of her dismal justifications. Sure, a little harsh, but a lot true. But just because I’m such an understanding person, I asked myself the question, is there such a thing as this mysterious ‘special’ kind of relationship? One that doesn’t play by the normal rules but still gets you to the end you so desire? Is that the reason why you keep going back for more, even after the continuous heartbreak and disappointment?
Here’s the simple answer. No.
Yes, every couple works differently and that’s the beauty of love. But the intellectual stimulation, hand-holding and flirty jokes are all fun and games until you find yourself at the top of the New York Library steps, dropping your phone in a dramatic slow-motion montage, because your fiancé freaked out and stood you up on your wedding day (this implies that you’re a fictional character whose successful TV show finally got made into a movie, but can also be applied to real life circumstances ok?). At the end of the day, you’re either in or you’re out. There’s just no way around it.
I’ve also heard the retaliation to this 100,000 times. You know the old:
‘But you can’t just turn the feelings off, okay? I can’t help that I feel this way. ‘
Well, of course you can’t. You don’t choose to fall in love with who you do, it just happens. So, I’ll allow you a free pass on that one. But it’s the decisions you make afterwards that matter the most, because unfortunately, you do get to choose those. And when it comes to Mr. Big, Carrie will always choose wrong.
So what is it about that something you know is so bad for you, that still makes you lose all sense of logic and reason and chase after it blindingly anyway? It’s the rush of the moment; that high of getting the attention you had only 15% convinced yourself you didn’t even want. It’s the little butterflies when the crazy expectations and fantasies you keep bottled up in a far corner of your brain are actually playing out in front of you, even just for a second. It’s the anticipation that one day, it might last for more just that one second. Unfortunately, what we forget is, a moment is a just that, a moment. Once it passes, you’re left with only the memory of the high, which you fall from heartbreakingly until your faith is restored by the next precious moment.
These Mr. Bigs of the world are the absolute best people to give you that addictive feeling, yet they’re also the worst. They don’t go beyond the moment because the moment is all they need to satisfy their own tastes. What’s worse is, you can’t really hate them for it either, because most of the time, they told you from the start that’s all they wanted. So how do you cope? Y end up either hating yourself for playing along or start to pretend you’re the female Mr. Big, which let’s face it, is a huge lie. Sure, not every woman wants a boyfriend, husband or long-term relationship. But every woman wants and deserves respect, which is pretty much the most important component missing in your fireworks romance. And I’ll bet you didn’t even notice.
Of course, he’s not out rightly disrespecting you. He’s not calling you a fat cow, or making sexist sandwich jokes (if he is, leave. Like seriously. I don’t care how pretty or rich he is. Walk out that door and throw that sandwich at his head on your way out). What he’s actually doing is far worse. By successfully convincing you that whatever he’s asking for, and whatever you’re giving him, is good enough to sustain both your appetites. Well, sir. A girl’s gotta eat, and your plate of fries lies (much clever) is not good enough for two people. You really should have specified that you wanted a sharing plate size if you were planning on splitting it with me. Similarly, your relationship isn’t a sharing plate, because he’s getting a heck of a lot of fries whilst you’re getting a couple here and there, telling yourself you’re super full anyway.
I guess what I’m trying to say, through the use of long-winded and sort of irrelevant metaphors, is that the idea is always going to better than the practical outcome. Love is exhausting stuff, but even that has its limits. If you’re completely drained and exhausted when the Prada heels come off at the end of the day, it should be because you kicked ass at work as CEO, and not because some idiot is stringing you along, holding the idea of ‘someday’ above your head. Because even if he actually loves you deep down, you’re failing to realise, you’re still the other woman because he’s already in a committed relationship with his ego, and trust me, it’s taking up most of his bed space.
You want to survive in the world and still love a Mr. Big? Easy. Make yourself into a Carrie edition of him and beat him at his own game. Don’t be apologetic for what you want from a relationship, and don’t sell yourself short just for that momentary high. It’s okay to be selfish because guess what? He’s doing the same to you. Don’t compromise on your emotional and sensitive personality, the one that watches romantic comedies and stares out of the windows for her Manhattan Prince to arrive. After all, you wouldn’t be Carrie without it, and that would be a crying shame. Pick yourself up, grab that Big Mac you so thoughtfully bought him before he stomped on your heart for the millionth time, take a huge bite and say ‘Yo, eff this Preston! This burger and I have had it with your commitment issues. We OUT!’ (Of course you can paraphrase. This is purely a suggestion).
It may take a few gos, or even a couple hundred in some cases (cough past experiences of sister, cough), but when you’re truly done, you’ll know you’re done. You’ll no longer need that fictional fantasy of him showing up in your closet, proposing to you with a stiletto, which actually sounds super serial killer-like now that I think about it. Who knows? You might even find a nice guy who may not have the same spark or charm, but finally fills that little hole in your heart that you’ve been trying to mould into the shape of Chris Noth.
Actually, better yet just become Samantha Jones and ignore this whole article. She’s living life the right way. Plus her wardrobe is equally fabulous, so it’s a win-win really. Stuff everything I just said. You can never go wrong when you’re Samantha.
Love S!
xx
Comments