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You have your fantasy, I have mine…

By Gloria Diaz

Check out Gloria's Blog — Edge of Gloria!

Fort Wayne Reader


If you are a guy and you’re reading this, stop. Hand it over to your significant other, and go watch NASCAR.

However, if you’re a curious guy with an open mind (yeah, I’m sure there are lots of those in Fort Wayne) and want to learn a little bit more about women, read on.

This is a chick column—I know I’ve written about my trucking saga, but this is an estrogen fest, so consider yourself warned. I have to gush about the best movie I’ve seen so far this summer, Sex and the City. Men are puzzled about the popularity of this movie—in Rush Limbaugh’s case, he’s downright threatened, but you’d expect that from a guy who’s scared of women. I’m here to explain why this movie rocks.

For years, men have had their fantasies—women who have perfect bodies, don’t talk much, don’t think and who exist only to service men sexually. Sex and the City is the ladies’ turn. Actually, it’s sort of a mixture of fantasy and reality. Oh hell, who am I kidding? I don’t know anyone who lives like that. Strip away the fabulous clothing, the food, the fashion shows, the trips and the New York setting, and what you have left is friendship between four accomplished women. Even if you hang out with friends who are crack addicts, friendship is something you share. If your boyfriend is a dick, your girls will side with you about the times that you part company with him and he doesn’t bother to kiss you goodbye or even say “see you later.” Your homegirls are there when you need to vent. And they are also there to help you realize flying solo isn’t a crime—and is preferable to being in a relationship that is going nowhere.

And men are threatened by that. You men like to think that women are willing to scratch each other’s eyes out over some skanky Eminem lookalike on Maury Povich declaring he isn’t the baby’s daddy. Sex and the City lets us know it’s okay to scratch some chick’s eyes out, particularly if there’s a great purse to be had at a bargain—or at any price. We have our priorities.

Aside from the friendship aspect is the fact that these women have fulfilling, good-paying jobs, nice places to live, and happen to call one of the most glamourous cities on earth home. If you’re stuck in the Midwest, surrounded by 10-pound pizzas, buffalo wings and breaded pork tenderloins, the selection of food in New York is a culinary fantasyland. Same thing with the clothes. Even if you can’t afford $1300 boots, it’s nice to look every so often at an outfit that seems more of a work of art than just fabric to cover your body with. Then, there’s the men. They’ll dress better in the big city (even the white guys) and probably be better looking, and have interesting jobs and sophisticated tastes. New York is one of those cities where a walk around the neighborhood can pack more excitement and adventure and life than a week in the Midwest would.

People here scoff at the crime in bigger cities. There’s also the high cost of living. That’s the price you pay for being in a place with more opportunities than rural America. Stuff happens in New York. That’s where you go to be a stage actress, or a model, or really, whatever you want to be.

And that’s the lure of Sex and the City. These women, despite their individual problems, are living the dream. They are buying the clothes and shoes the rest of us dream about. They are looking for the same kind of Prince Charmings we are. They are working the jobs we wish we had.

In his derogatory comments about the movie, Rush Windbag made the assertion that men hate Sex and the City because the women aren’t absolutely perfectly gorgeous. They are certainly attractive enough, but their imperfections are probably another factor as to the success of the series, and the movie. Up to a certain point, most women can identify with at least one of the characters, either by personality or looks. And to me, the women’s personalities are what set them off from each other. But as we all know, personality cuts zero ice with men. I hate it when a guy who looks like he’s pregnant with triplets and hasn’t showered in a week somehow he thinks he deserves a supermodel. Dream on, loser.

But he’s entitled to his dreams, and so am I and the rest of my fellow female American citizens. We are imperfect too, and yet we are looking for our dream man—one who cooks, cleans, tells us we’re beautiful all the time, and spends cash on us once in a while. Oh, and don’t forget catering to our every wish, being thoughtful, compassionate and romantic. Oh yeah, and has a perfect body, too. Not too much to ask for, really.
So if your girlfriend dumps your ass at home while she rounds up her homegirls to see Sex and the City for a girls’ night out, don’t get huffy. Just plug in the Playstation 3, suck up the Doritos and deal. You have your fantasy—we women are entitled to have ours. And in my opinion, it’s about damn time.

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