I own every single DVD from every single season, but despite its very positive attributes, I'm still pretty sure that Sex and the City might be more responsible for fucking up a woman's perception of what's real than any other show in the history of television – and I’m not just saying that because for a few months there, I thought it made perfect sense to pick up my dry cleaning while wearing a puffy pink tutu.

There was the time my mother watched me unwrap a birthday present and gazed at my puzzled face as I held up a long grey taffeta dress that was backless and had a plunging neckline that was designed to make nipples the outfit’s key accessory.

"I thought you could wear it to dinner when you go out with your friends," she said. 

Those were the days when I spent most of my time in the city, arriving at my friend’s apartment lugging a bag crammed with a toothbrush, some makeup, about four pairs of shoes for one night, and my dog. She would stick her furry face out of the top of the carrier bag she'd been stuffed into for an hour and she would look entirely pissed off.  There wasn’t even a smidgen of an expression of gratitude on her puppy face for the fact that I took her with me everywhere, but then again, Wookie has always been an animal who never warmed to a plush carrier, a carpeted crate stuffed with every squeak toy in the universe, or having bows stuck into her hair.  

You’ve kind of got to respect her for all of that.

My friends and I went to great places, but I tried to imagine myself walking though Union Square in my birthday gown. I just couldn't see it happening.