  So here we are, capping off a long run of witty, pretty, tipsy ladies conversing Seinfeld-style in Manhattan about all sorts of things that either hit eerily close to home or fantastically far from it. It's hard to feel too much a sense of closure at this juncture because we might be heading for a screenplay before long.
I have to assume that, like the X-Files end movie that never came to be, this is the end. At the show's beginning Carrie was near 30, the fabled age of the end of youth and the beginning of adulthood. Now nearing 40, Carrie has defied adulthood, ballyhooing ticking biological clocks, career ladders, and men who neither deserved monogamy nor entertained her social wanderlust. In essence, she defied the image of American women through their thirties. In this, the last season, the writers were obvious with their struggle to find the point to all these shoes and cosmopolitans.
It seems they picked maturity to be the meaning of middle-aged urban life. So like lost orphans off of soap opera scripts, our four girls matured before the camera a little too rapidly, through these last seven episodes. Miranda matured when she realized family sacrifices trumped living in Manhattan. Charlotte matured when she was forced to refocus her vision of motherhood from a pretty pregnancy with high society baby showers and very expensive maternity clothes to the more achievable avenue of adoption.
Samantha had maybe the truest moment of personal maturity this season, not when she underwent breast cancer, but rather when she found love and companionship more valuable than edgy sex, as in the episode where Smith was waiting outside the elevator door. Where's Carrie in all this maturing? I hoped experiencing other cultures would bring about her catharsis, but no, in an attempt to celebrate the same values, just a little geographically removed, she fell flat on her face.
Literally. In the Paris Dior. We're left with a man A or man B plot conclusion. Last night I dreamt about it! I was deciding in my dream that surely she must choose Alexander because choosing Big would leave the hopeful movie devoid of sexual tension. Now, in my more lucid hours, I have to amend my proposal just a bit. She should choose Alexander, and it should work out miserably.
Then, the movie could be filled with cute little narrations as she, in her expatriate solitude, writes a fantastic book (because we all know expatriate solitude produces fantastic books), and return to New York a triumphant success in her career, nevermind the sexual failure. Don't look for any of this to happen. Just enjoy the kinship of women across the country as we sit down together to say farewell to Sex. Lift a cosmopolitan for Carrie Bradshaw, the woman that defied her thirties.
Btw, here's a nice conversation between two women smarter than I, about what should happen to Carrie: urlLink Do We Need Men to Be Happy? 
