I watched Sex and the City from start to finish at the exact same time I watched Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure from start to finish. It is every weird fashion girl’s dream to experience two universes of strange, fabulous outfits colliding in real time. I’m convinced Carrie Bradshaw would wear Fugo’s swiss‑cheese green suit without blinking. She’d do her hair like Jolyne. Honestly, she’d probably even try Gyro’s green lipstick if she thought Big might like it.
And yet, even as Jojo protagonists get more morally gray with each part, I never felt the same emotional whiplash toward them as I did toward Carrie Bradshaw. She’s a mess. She’s broke in designer. She wants a man who uses her. She is, unfortunately, so much more like me than I care to admit. I don’t know if Candace Bushnell intended Carrie to be an over‑exaggerated caricature of our deepest flaws or if she was simply writing herself as that insufferable, but either way, it worked.
I feel like a kindred spirit to Carrie when it comes to fashion. She dresses however she wants. She doesn’t care about the price tag. Her hair is messy and curly. She’s a blonde just like me. I should be saving for the house I’m dreaming of that just hit the market, but instead I’m scraping by on Bloomingdale’s rewards certificates to secure a pair of Moncler boots by October. She’d be proud of me. Her style is whimsical, unserious, romantic. I love her gold Playboy necklace.
I feel like her in the early seasons, sitting at her plastic MacBook, tapping a cigarette on the ashtray. I don’t write a sex column, but I do deal with sex and the Constitution. I write my blog for an audience of no one. I make things about me when I shouldn’t. At her best, Carrie is a mirror I can laugh with.
But when I watch her chase Big over and over again, I get secondhand embarrassment so strong it feels physical. My heart sinks as if she’s a friend who just can’t learn. She never does. When she gets to Aiden, she repeats the cycle. It’s forgivable in your formative college years, but at Carrie’s age it makes the show almost unwatchable. If she had more self‑hatred, maybe it would make sense, but she doesn’t. She’s unwilling to see the truth. It’s pure delusion dressed up as self‑esteem issues.
I go back and forth on whether she’s even a good friend or a good columnist. Everyone loves to talk about what she did to Charlotte with the ring, but that’s one moment. I find her bond with Samantha genuinely endearing. Still, she centers herself constantly. And for someone who writes about sex, she’s surprisingly judgmental. She lacks the freedom Samantha and Charlotte have, and it holds her back.
All of this to say: Carrie Bradshaw is one of the most important characters on television, on one of the most important shows ever made. There’s a reason we still talk about her. Every girl wants her closet. Everyone wants to debate her relationships. Every friend group has a Carrie. Her impact and raw, chaotic, hot‑mess energy raised generations of women and continues to do so.
How could I ever truly hate her?
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