For years, decades even, Carrie Bradshaw represented a new type of woman: sexually empowered, career driven and child-free. She paraded herself as a free thinker. She was independent. She was a badass. A decent writer, who could probably outrun an Olympian in those Mahnolas of hers and despite her misgivings, a friend who truly and deeply loves her girls. But I think it's time to finally call a spade, a spade. If Sex and the City has a villain, then it's the star of the show herself, Ms. Carrie Bradshaw.
In a way, it's like finding out Santa Claus isn't real—first comes denial, then sadness, then acceptance. So I guess I can finally say RIP to both Mr. Big and the pedestal I used to put Carrie Bradshaw on. Maybe I've just outgrown her or maybe being so transfixed on following in her footsteps gave me the tools I needed to become my own #strongindependantwoman.
It's not for nothing though. Either way, she taught me what a Cosmopolitan is, that wearing a $7 dress with $300 shoes is totally not a fashion faux-pas and that a "rabbit" isn't always referring to the cute animal with big ears. But most importantly, she taught me to embrace that independence and go through life loudly, boldy and to have faith in my own convictions, and so for that, C.B., thank you—but I think I got it from here.
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