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Mr. Big

© Brenda

I’m no stranger to love. After 33 years, I’ve done everything from pine for unrequited passion to writing my first name combined with his last name over and over again. Curly-Qs around his moniker, a heart above the i’s – love in junior high school seemed easy enough. High school was only a sad rerun on some obscure cable station.

Fast forward to my early twenties. It was the same situations, only without the curly-Qs. I wanted romance, fireworks, the whole nine yards. What I got was a couple marriages, weird relationships, and no earth-shattering sex to mention. A lot of disillusionment, no real stories to write home about. It was camp without the counselors who French kiss you on your second day. A rainy season with too many buys.

Skip the credits and go directly to my late twenties. A broken heart forcing my hand, I played my cards and found that betting on a sure thing yielded greater rewards than waiting for true love, if that even existed. The sex was incredible. I was Samantha incarnate, without the clothes and VISA bills. I was woman, hear my roar. And I was incredibly lonely.

I wish I could say that I found myself in my early thirties without the soul-searching and too many frogs to kiss. I wish that I could tell younger women to hold out, that it all gets better. I really don’t know that it does. And this coming from a woman who used to brag that I could hold court over an international speaking tour, warning those too eager to wed that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Happily ever after only existed in our fairy tales, and then it was only after you had to endure sleeping quietly in some forest for 200 years waiting for your prince.

I’m a huge fan of Sex and the City. And at times, I have identified with three of the characters (choosing not to include Charlotte, although at one time marriage seemed to be the very answer to my unasked questions). A new friend of mine loaned me her SATC second season tapes this week when I went to pick her up for a trip to indulge in ice cream. I couldn’t remember the second season, or what I was doing (more likely who I was doing) at the time. I just wanted a few laughs and perhaps the subject of my next column. Little did I think two hours of viewing would yield just that.

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