SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

After just seeing the Sex and the City 2 movie, I had to ask myself: Was it really necessary to Carrie on with Carrie Bradshaw? And was the latest dose of the girls’ just excess baggage?

Those of you who’ve followed my musings, my column and blog-banter know I have always loved this property and the ways in which it managed the struggles of the heart. Michael Patrick King is my idol.

So why do I feel so weighed down as opposed to my standard and enjoyable helping of Bradshaw? I wondered, as I drove home from the theatre.

When I sat down to write today, I felt weird and sort of sad, altered. So I decided to unpack first, to see what was weighing me down. And I found this: a journal entry from a trip back to New York—during the final season of SATC.

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I’m on my way back to L.A. and doing the usual people watching at gate 23A. As I wait for my flight, memories of my old life, my New York life, flood my head: the city, the jobs, the ex-husbands, the lost friends, the sacrificed-for style, the chunks of culture—all now, just moldy memories. While pondering and tapping into this laptop, my eyes land on my (much smaller) orange and khaki Gap carry-on and (oddly) I think of Carrie Bradshaw. Like me, she and her girlfriends have lived, loved and lost in that crazy, amazing, annoying, over-crowded city. Thus, through their trials and tribulations, allowing me to revive my love for Manhattan, while considering my current life. Like my current trip, back to take a bite—after years…both are over.

Airports have always struck me as the one place where life comes and goes at supersonic speed. Vacations begin and end, sad farewells and joyful reunions, delays and customs, layovers and connections and unfortunately baggage claim! In the formative years of my career, travel was a way of life and best practices a requirement. So how I traveled became an art form and baggage claim the anti-Christ. This was a hundred years ago; before they had that little cave (your suitcase had to fit through) on the security conveyer belt. Thus I took full advantage—not to mention covert pride—in cramming my Le Sportsac (yes they were in style) shoulder bag with as many outfit changes as possible, then testing my skills at boarding call by maneuvering my 200 pound duffle in such a way that it appeared as if I were transporting feathers. When presenting my driver’s license and boarding pass, I toyed with the watchful eye of the perky flight attendants.

“How are you today?” I’d ask, smiling politely, and pushing the bag toward my back while the webbed straps dug into my shoulder. A trick that has now, years later, left one shoulder 3/4 of an inch higher than the other……

…So, naturally, while I sit here waiting to return “home”, a million years older, I had to ask myself: In a world where age is pushed as far back in the closet as Ms. Bradshaw’s Manolos’ from last season…..will gay men ever understand and embrace the importance packing properly for trips from decade to decade? And will our/my community ever age gracefully? Being back in New York, my old life, this only accentuates my age and makes me wonder: What will happen to Samantha (or me) when the hunky men stop looking? When nobody wants to have sex with her (or me)? Or how much longer will Carrie’s feet be able to negotiate five-inch heels before her feet hurt too much to bother with the hot shoes…and life becomes flat(s)? Watching Carrie Bradshaw sit at her laptop— rattling out thoughts about life and the pursuit of happiness with the opposite sex—has only left me feeling anxious about growing old. Their show will (probably) end (on a high-heel note) and they’ll gracefully dissolve into the Manhattan skyline —all the while, hair by hair, the grey in my beard creeps into prominence……

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So there you have it. Y-e-a-r-s later and two movies behind them/us, with an almost all-grey beard, I suppose that after reading that old journal entry, the issue is this: parts of the film made getting old ridiculous. And, the flashier the fashion, the more Samantha ate yams and digested fistfuls of pills, the more miserable it made me. Fortunately there were some small moments when the difficulties of motherhood were shared over a cosmo. But I’m left with this:

Maybe, as a society—gay or straight, but especially gay—we still haven’t found a way to empower sixty tastefully? (Whatever that is…but it’s not Samantha dressed as Lady Gaga) Maybe, some desires should be given away to charity, passed along to the next posse of nubies—along with last season’s stiletto? Maybe, at fifty-five, no matter how rockin’ your bod, a black turtleneck becomes sexier than a plunging neckline? And maybe fucking in public just becomes tacky after a certain age?

But Hollywood calls, the checks get bigger, and somewhere between kicking off one pair of shoes and stepping into another, you get scared of aging, afraid they won’t call again. So you cash out instead of Carrie on….

…..But maybe…from time to time, everyone should to go through a security check…just to check for bombs…of insecurity.