What came first—the crazy or the Carrie?

I like to watch the Sex and the City series (and now movie!) in chronological order, over and over, and I’m currently on the first season again... originally with the intent to watch with my boyfriend because he hasn’t seen it (shocking!), although last night he slept through episodes 10 and 11 (but somehow magically awakened, just for a minute, in time to see ex-city girl Laney flash Samantha’s party). Oh, how I wish I could sleep through Family Guy, but I think the sound of Lois’ voice would make that impossible...

Anyway, I think it was during the very first episode, when the girls are discussing women having sex like men, i.e. “feeling nothing,” and the BF wasn’t exactly official yet so he was still paying attention, when he said something along the lines of, “Oh boy, this show is a bad influence on you.” At the time, I laughed it off, saying if that were the case, I’d obviously be way past the point of no return—10 years deep into SATC fanaticism. But as we’re getting further into Carrie and Big’s Season One dysfunction, I’ve been thinking more and more about that comment.

This time through the early episodes, Carrie’s crazy behavior is making me cringe even more—and I think it’s because I see myself in her (not her career, or her clothes, or her social life, of course—just in her ridiculousness). Episode 11, “The Drought,” hit way too close to home.

After she accidentally lets one rip in bed with her new boyfriend, Carrie proceeds to OBSESS to all of her friends—convinced that the fart is to blame for her tapering sex life. Three friends. The same conversation. Four times. I too enjoy having the same conversation multiple times—as long as it’s all about me. Sometimes when I’m rambling on and on, saying the same things over and over, telling a never-ending story in excruciating detail, I actually feel my sanity float out of my body before it looks down in disgust and screams, “SHUT UP! No one cares! You’re lucky these people even want to hang out with you!” Yes, that’s right, I’m aware. But I can’t stop. Because. I’m. Crazy.

Toward the end of her obsessing, Carrie decides to take matters into her own hands and visit Big. Unfortunately, he isn’t expecting her and is more interested in watching some pay-per-view fight (also, he’s just kind of an ass), so she ends up making a complete fool of herself and then storming out—(mistakenly) expecting him to follow. While I usually don’t leave in a big huff, I do like to make a dramatic exit when I’m feeling ignored—by sneaking away. Once I wandered off into the North Woods while I was staying at my high school boyfriend’s family cabin. Nothing says love like a search party, apparently. Carrie’s response to Big’s eventual, “What was that all about?” was, “That was me, having a meltdown.” That’s a good one—vodka is another useful scapegoat.

After trying unsuccessfully to confront the problem, in her own special way, Carrie obsesses some more and then assumes the relationship is over, a defense mechanism with which I’m very familiar. I lost count of how many times I jumped the break-up gun by deleting my college boyfriend’s number, sans discussion. We dated for three years.

Eek. That’s some pretty disturbing herstory. But maybe it’s not all my fault—maybe I’m just the victim of a dangerous role model... I wonder: Did my inherent insanity attract me to Carrie, or did all these years of hanging on every cosmo turn me into the near nutjob I am today?