I’ll admit it, Carrie Bradshaw in aviators and a fur coat, smoking and drinking beer while watching baseball, spoke to me. It was season two of Sex and the City, 1999. She was bruised from a recently ended relationship but on the brink of dating “the new Yankee” and I was a teenager, probably home from playing racketball and on the brink of Quorn sausages for dinner.
While it wasn’t the whole equation, the fur coat was certainly part of it. The way she could shrink into it and appear nonchalantly, breezily beautiful despite unwashed hair and an aching heart. I’m not proud, but I was young, and this to me then looked like something I wanted a piece of.
