There is a great Anne Boyer poem called “At Least Two Types of People.” The first type of person makes sense in society: “They are not alien from the creation and maintenance of the world, and the world does not treat them as alien.” They intuitively know the right way to sit, stand, eat, dress. The second type does not have it so easy. This type repels and resists, and is someone “for whom the salaries and weddings and garages do not come.” Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City and the considerably more deranged reboot And Just Like That… raises the possibility of a third type of person.
At 58-ish years old, despite having all the material trappings of the first type and (almost) none of the bad luck of the second, Carrie fits the definition of alien exactly. (That run-walk always felt off...) She is in a long-distance situationship with the most annoying man this side of Appalachia, is writing historical romance fiction inspired by the rats in her backyard, and still hasn’t bought furniture for her Gramercy Park home that features a grumpy-hot British tenant she won’t admit she’s attracted to. She got the job, the boyfriend, and the apartment in the city where she argues you’re always looking for one of the three (see: episode 5, season 5 of Sex and the City), yet she’s having bad phone sex and wearing hats that give her the appearance of a cottagecore Speedy Gonzales.
