I do not look like Sarah Jessica Parker.
Neither do you.
I never did. Neither did you.
The iconic SJP - and by default Carrie Bradshaw (or is that the other way around?) - is all teeny-tiny delicate, fascinatingly attractive in the least cookie-cutter of ways. Shiny hair for days that looks epic c-c-curly or straight, bobbed or waist-length. Able to walk without sobbing in the highest of heels. Equally at home in micro-minis, men's tailored pants, a ball gown, a Heidi dress. A tutu, of course.
I could no more wear what she - or her wears - to work, to lunch, to shop - than you could (stop reading now, Mia Freedman, you are the exception that proves the rule).
And yet, spending 10 weeks watching SJP/Carrie wearing clothes has been the highlight of a dark Summer.
Watch the trailer for And Just Like That here. Post continues below.
I've watched the Sex And The City reboot And Just Like That in pyjamas (well, what passes for pyjamas in my house, possibly active wear, maybe an oversized T-shirt, potentially shorts), while shivering through an intense bout of COVID, pondering which holiday plan to cancel next, wrestling with a tricky creative project, work and all the regular family dramas, all while trying to hold back an ever-ballooning wave of impending doom.
But the colour and movement of AJLT has made me consider that possibly, maybe, things will get better. And that one day, I will no longer be wearing an elasticated waist.
Yes, we have choked on tea witnessing the often-clumsy attempts to make a show birthed in the cynical, irreverent 1990s culturally relevant in the earnest, inclusive 2020s.
And yes, we have cringed a little at how it has dealt with absent friends - the disgraced ones (Chris Noth), the actually departed ones (Willie Garson) and the ones who wanted no part of it (Kim Catrall).
It hasn't always been easy to watch.
But the fashion? The fashion has been flawless.
Breathtaking.
Image: HBO/Binge.
Surprising
Image: HBO/Binge.
Wearable.
Image: HBO/Binge.
Emotional.
Image: HBO/Binge.
Hilarious.
Image: HBO/Binge.
And actually, for someone who also turned 50 in this difficult Australian Summer, it has been revolutionary.
Because between the characters on this show (yes, Carrie, but not only Carrie, also, for me, Miranda, Nya, Seema) and Sylvie, the only reason to watch Emily In Paris, grown-up clothes are truly exciting again.
Image: Netflix.
There are people - like the aforementioned Mia Freedman - who have a God-given gift for dressing. Their wardrobes are bountiful, their confidence is undented by a clashing print and there is no word in their language for "overdressed".
Then there are people who genuinely don't care about clothes. Like those peculiar humans who eat to live, they dress to not be arrested in public. Just cover them up and shove them outside.
And then there's the vast majority of the rest of us. We like clothes, but feel insecure about them. Our bodies, our budgets, our fear of being looked at and of not being looked at have screwed our relationship with one of the most basic pleasures - looking at pretty stuff, putting it on, feeling cute.
"Feeling cute" might be a deeply embarrassing thing for a grown-woman to aspire to, but we all know how it feels. That particular pair of jeans. That dress that makes you want to swish. That shirt that sits just so. A day gets better when you put it on. You walk differently. You sit differently. You present like a person ready to receive a compliment.
For most of us, it has absolutely nothing to do with sexual validation. Occasionally, yes, but much more often it's about finding something to wear that makes our outsides match our insides.
And, for decades, women over 40 have been encouraged to dress as if their insides are saying 'Don't mind me. I'm only here to help.'
Safe colours, shapeless fits, practical lengths and safe heights. The loudest you're allowed to be is perhaps, a statement resin earring. A bold bead necklace. Maybe, a cheerful scarf.
It's like we've reached an internalised agreement that our time for being looked at is over.
After all, we're constantly told that older women are invisible. And it's requested, implicitly or explicitly, that you dress accordingly.
Listen to What Are You Wearing?, Mamamia's weekly fashion podcast. In this episode, co-hosts Tamara and Deni speak to the And Just Like That costume boss Molly Rogers. Post continues below.
What we've seen on our screens this Summer is that assumption being overturned. Women over 45 are not invisible. We can see each other. And we are desperately, delightedly, craning our necks to catch a glimpse.
That's why grown-up women have adored watching Carrie, Sylvie (Emily in Paris), Seema and Miranda dressed. Yes, we know we can't afford the actual clothes on their back (no, you definitely can't, no offence), but we can follow their lead to stand out. Their clothes are a glorious celebration that isn't about flesh, it's about feelings.
Their refusal to disappear into beige slacks is a reclaiming. A middle finger that suggests maybe, just maybe, that invisibility cloak mid-life women have been convinced they're wearing is a superpower, not a liability.
If no-one is looking at you anyway, what greater freedom to wear whatever you damn well want?
That's why Carrie Bradshaw can wear an orange, puff-ball-sleeved ball gown and elbow-length, hot pink gloves on a bridge at midnight. No-one in Paris is watching. They're all looking down at their phones.
I know you've seen this meme.
The main characters in the first season of Golden Girls are younger than in the current Sex and The City (53/54 in GG and 54/55 in And Just Like That!)
— Flora Gill (@FloraEGill) January 4, 2022
Amazing how different our view of women at that age is now. pic.twitter.com/Wq40Vsr4SG
In the mid-80s, The Golden Girls were of that certain age, and they were grey-haired widows in khaki pantsuits and pastel joggers living in a bland, sun-blessed retirement village. But by the 2020s, the 50-ish women on And Just Like That are not only living lives of depth and interest in the most exciting city in the world - having surprising sex in kitchens and helping their daughters remove tampons and painting homeless shelters and vomiting on the streets after getting messy drunk on a date - they're doing it in clothes that refuse to be invisible, subtle or polite.
And they make me want to get dressed again.
Feature image: HBO/Binge/Mamamia.
