this week’s sex and the city didn’t feel as uplifting to me as i think it was supposed to. it’s a terrific show — since liz and i discovered it, it’s become something of a ritual. hbo is my master sunday nights, starting at 8 with six feet under. shamelessly, i lie on the couch and listen, without flinching, to them gloat. they have me but at least they’ve earned me.
something about the message this week, the distinct possibility that despite the fact that you’re a skinny, attractive, intelligent, witty, wealthy, well-dressed, suave manhattanite (indeed, four of them) you could still be single at 36. that just shoots to hell every preconception i’ve ever had. i’m not exactly i make disdainful comments about marriage all the time — but that’s in reference to the next ten years. by the time i’m 36, i do want to be married, or at least in some common-law committed equivalent. it’s not so much a kid thing; i’m not sure what my logic is, in fact.
so i cried. later when my father made some nasty comment about my new bathing suit and my haircut, i went upstairs and hugged the koala for a while, and then, more productively, hugged the beauty myth, which is what i just should have done in the first place.