But there is a scene in the movie, where Charlotte has her arms around Carrie, holding her, she points her finger at the man who has hurt Carrie, and she screams, “No.” The scene is stunning, raw, and it will make you cry if you’ve ever been or needed a friend at the worst moment of your life. I lost it there in the movie theater along with the other sixty or so like-minded women and one dude. In fact now, just writing about it again, it brings tears to my eyes.

It is the kind of scene that will bring to mind every friend you’ve had in your life who has stood up for you and been there when you needed them the most, and the gratefulness you feel for having so many wonderful women in your life at some point or another will level you. Or at least it did me.

Because above all the hype, all the designers, the clothes, the this, the that, above all that this is a movie about the power and beauty of female friendship. Sure it’s all glossed up and when you boil it down to the barest essentials, it’s really just a predictably, saccharine-y chick flick — but that one scene and the next oh 30 or so minutes that follow it get to the heart of what Sex and the City was always about, friendship. And even though the cultural pundits and movie critics want to make the show, the movie, and the four females leads into some sort of sociological point, symbol of something, it’s really nothing more than a story about women friends. When you take it like that, the movie is kind of everything you want. God, I enjoyed all 2+ hours of it, which is a minor miracle for someone with the worst kind of ADD. I didn’t once reach for my phone to see how much more time I’d be trapped there.

*incidentally, can I just complain that it should not take sixty bajillion e-mails just to plan one night out with three people? That’s ridiculous. After much waffling and frustration, I decided to go see the movie by myself, which is kind of what I had planned and wanted to do all along.

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i know, i know i swore off the tv– but technically this was on DVD so it sorta doesn’t count. and, really, “Sex in the City” is my total girlie weakness. i just love that show.

and when i say busy, i’m talking not messing around busy. it’s good in the thrilling way that being really super busy doing fun, exciting stuff can be good. but it’s also totally exhausting. i’m thinking so much, so quickly, so often that my poor little brain doesn’t even know what to do, besides spend the weekend crashed out on the fabulous blue couch watching “Sex in the City.”

and when i say busy, i’m not talking in a social-whirlwind butterfly kind of way. i mean in the 10 hour work days kind of way. which is a little stinky, but seems to be fulfilling at the moment nonetheless. so one really can’t complain all that much can one?

but i’m sure this one will find a way.

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but then i thought that maybe i’m just trying to compare 20 years olds of 2002 to the 20 year olds of 1992– which probably isn’t fair.

but then i read the entire story and i still don’t think things have changed all that much. i think it’s a silly ploy by the newspapers to be racy and hip. somehow i don’t think the 20 year olds are having any more or less sex than most of the 20 years olds i knew when i was that age.

i was reading some of the excerpts they had taken from some of the campus sex columns and i must admit i was more than a little shocked.

perhaps this is just a clear case of my old-fogyism, but my god bondage at 20? i guess i was too busy worrying about my media law final to think about how i was gonna get it on.

plus they were also talking about how the young 20 somethings who were juniors and sophmores in college were worried about not finding their one true love and how the men their age were afraid of committment and all i coould think was MY GOD YOU ARE 20!

they should all be running and screaming from any serious commitment at that age.

i just don’t think the whole sex in the city theme can work for that 20something age range like it does for the 30something. but then again, i’m not the audience for a college sex column am i?

anyway, at the end of the story, the reporter asked the yale sex columnist if she’d ever had sex and the columnist said she couldn’t answer that.

ha! virgin, i thought.

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When I finally figured out that Joanie, Richie and the Fonz weren’t actual people who we were lucky enough to watch once a week, I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be on TV and in movies. I wanted the fame, the glory. I wanted to wear pretty dresses and accept awards.

I have a school-years book that my mom kept. In it she chronicled my growth, shoved my report cards, class pictures and every year I had to sign my name and write what I wanted to be when I grew up. Even though I toyed with other professions-ballerina, waitress, model, teacher, babysitter, I almost always wrote in actress. Well, except for the wackiness of second grade when I wrote in cowgirl.

Somewhere along the way that dream died. I think it happened when I was either a freshman or sophomore in high school. It was either my mom or my dad, who broke my heart. Probably my mom, since she’s the one who broke it to me at 12 that I wouldn’t ever get to be a ballerina. She told me that I was much too big to be a dancer, that ballerinas weren’t 6-feet tall.

So maybe my mom left it to my dad to break my heart this time. I just know one of them told me that I was much too big and tall to be an actress, that at 6’3′, I would be taller than all the actors and just look silly.

Thankfully the heart of a teenage girl is resilient and bounces back easily. So, instead of trying out for the high school plays I joined the newspaper and wrote about them. And, as they say, the rest is history.

But there is still that dreamy teenager buried deep inside of me who peeps out whenever an awards show comes on.

I love watching awards shows. To me the Academy Awards are like the Super bowl. I plan my weekend around the awards show, with special treats and everything.

Tonight the Golden Globes are on. This is like the playoff games. You know, the semi-finals or something. It’s just a warm up. But I love it nonetheless.

I think what appeals to me is all the old-fashioned Hollywood glamour– the hair, the jewelry, the dresses, it’s just all so yummy.

My absolute favorite part of the whole shebang is the acceptance speeches. They almost always make me cry. Not all of them, just some of them. Like tonight when the guy who produces ‘Sex in the City’ said something like, ‘and two these four ladies without whose heart and soul we would have meaningless sex and no love.’

I can’t really explain what it is that gets me to cry. Mostly I just think it’s that in the moment I can put myself in the winner’s shoes. I can imagine so realistically what it would be like to win, what it’s like to win the respect of your peers and the world.

I cry for their excitement. For my own, momentary excitement, when I can slip inside that person. I just love it all.

I probably would have made a kick-ass actor.

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