I’m calling Carrie Bradshaw out on her bullshit.
Sure, I suspended disbelief when she bought $400 Manolos and slinky Prada dresses on her modest writer salary, but there’s no way she happily and flawlessly romped all around Manhattan — with its concrete and crowds oozing heat— in 6-inch stilettos with her curly hair flowing freely, her hemlines sitting fabulously in place.
I walked 40 blocks today, hair tied up in a bun, bangs pushed back with my sunglasses, wearing only 1-inch sandals, and “sticky” does not even begin to describe the wet mask I wore as I walked those 40 blocks, blisters bubbling up underneath my shoe straps.
Any plans for sightseeing were shot by the sheer heat and humidity suffocating the city, so after lunch I took the 7 line from Bryant Park straight back to Queens so I could take a second shower for the day (it’s 10 p.m. now and I’ll be going for a third), turn on the A/C and lie down in the cool space I’d created for myself.
Haute couture may have worked for a fictional Carrie, but when I’m not in the office, I’ll be sticking to hot couture: my shorts and flip-flops for the rest of the summer.