My writer’s block has kicked my ass something terrible, and I can’t shake it. My chapter about dating is overdue, and I am CHOOsing to ignore the familiar clinch of panic coursing through my body because I have an early train to catch. Running away from work commitments is my preferred type of cardio, and HBO has kindly asked if I’ll join them for dinner in Paris to celebrate season 3 of And Just Like That…—the internet’s most unhinged reboot (complimentary).
There’s no time for this—I have a book to finish! Through my writing, I’ve uncovered a safe pathway out of the shame spiral that ruled my existence the last time dating was top of mind. But serendipity twists my arm: a reissue of the “I Lost My Choo” pump landed in my closet last week (a gift from the brand). I can’t help but wonder—does Carrie also struggle to file on time? I simply have to know… maybe I can ask her? Plus, the only thing more on-brand than an exposé of my worst mistakes is my capacity for self-sabotage. Like Carrie, I like to think I’m self-aware—certainly to the extent that I’m willing to overshare the less palatable parts of myself. That is, until I find myself caught in another cycle of avoidance and it all goes tits up.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but the only valid reason to bail on a decade of commitment issues is to go on a wild goose chase—to the city of love—in a bid to lock eyes with the women who paved the way for said commitment issues. It’s the perfect metaphor for my behavior when I’m on the pull. Charlotte, Miranda, Carrie provided solace through thick and sin during my (very) single years, and I’ve come to think of them as an actual support system rather than fictional characters. The asylum that raised me. The architects of my delusions. The show I switch on when I want to feel better about my life—whether it’s the fact I don’t have kids at 37, or that I use one of the rooms in my rental to store all my shoes…
Speaking of—what the fuck am I going to wear? Fortunately, I’ve been hoarding my whole life in preparation for this exact eventuality. I toss a few bias-cut dresses into a cherry Speedy, grab my Dior newspaper Saddle bag, and make a wild dash for the Eurostar. I’m frazzled, and I understand why Carrie is always on the run: my feathered heels are comfy, but they need velocity to function in the city. At the station, people are staring, and I act nonchalant—like I always travel in silly little stilettos. It’s intoxicating, actually. I kick off my shoes, pull out my computer, and hope my aura is going to leak onto the Google Doc.
I arrive at the venue before the doors open. The space is a little corporate, so I beeline for the cosmos to calm my nerves: pink and punchy. Just what I need before the ladies make their entrance. I like to think I’m immune to getting starstruck. “Told you we’d cry,” I text the WhatsApp group as soon as Sarah Jessica Parker crosses the threshold. As a millennial, I cherish my prerogative to be cringe in public, thank you very much.
Davis—who is exactly as I imagine: warm and chatty—comes over to say hi to my friends Kevin and Charles, whom she met at the last Jacquemus show. And just like that… I’m part of the gang. Melfi, the show’s producer extraordinaire (and now friend), asks if it’s on purpose that my dress matches the wallpaper in Bradshaw’s new flat. I Google it. Damn, I’m good—but I didn’t know I was that good. Nixon glides by in a white, billowy dress encrusted with tiny diamantés, and I finally pluck up the courage to tell her how much both her voice—on and off screen—means to me. “We should all be Mirandas,” I joke, so I can tell the Every Outfit girls later. (They run a superfan account that documents all things SATC.) She points to the baby-blue Max Mara carnation—an emergency purchase from MyTheresa—pinned to my Ferragamo jacket and says with a wink, “And have you met this one yet?” Not yet.
We’re ushered into a rainbow-lit dining room where we’re served a gourmet three-course meal (derogatory); the kind where champagne mousse is presented as a garment. This is how I learn that Kristin Davis (placement goes hard!) won’t eat a single bite before checking that others have deemed the food edible (“I’m such a kid”). She regales us with stories from the AJLT set, marvels at the fact that after all these years her beloved character gets to age, and reveals that SJP is notoriously difficult to buy gifts for. I can’t tell if I’m listening to Charlotte or Kristin, but either way, I now have an enormous crush on this woman. I never get to say hi to SJP—I’m too shy.
As I board the Eurostar home, the algorithm serves me one of her press tour interviews. What would Carrie’s first column be if she were writing in 2025? “A woman’s right to choose—because it’s in the crosshairs again. And when she was writing that column in 1997, women had liberties. Or so we thought.”
Damn right, I murmur, looking down at my Choos. Now, how do I explain that to my editor?
