A free ticket is a free ticket even if it was to Sex and the City, a film I had no intention of seeing because I knew it would be silly and time could be better spent on clearing the garden of wandering jew to which the dog is allergic. Antibiotics for dogs are not cheap. Anyhow, as I can always be won over by a freebie, I went along with my friend Helen who had put on her best lipstick for the occasion.
Sex and the City is fabulous darling _ she's from Adelaide so she talks funny _ all those fabulous clothes and fabulous women who know how to live.
I couldn't quite remember why I hadn't watched the series on the television but the most likely reason was that I had been in my worthy stage then and spent Mondays engrossed in Four Corners.
While Helen chortled at lines not remotely funny I put on my best churlish face and folded my arms. Goodness, isn't Carrie's mole rather large and aren't her legs somewhat bandy?
Helen and I have been friends for at least 25 years, and while we would bring each other chicken soup if ill, there is an element of competition and bitchiness in our relationship.
Anticipating a fantasy escape into New York, Prada, Louis Vuitton, and lots of proxy sex via the ageing and shag addicted Samantha, Helen was in a pretty good mood and said nice things about my new belt.
On a bad day she would have said something along the lines of ''I don't think that belt is big enough for your waist darls'' to which I would have been obliged to mutter something about still being size 14, unlike some.
I reckon women who are 50 haven't got friendship quite right. (Women in their 60s are even worse.) They were brought up by mothers who were Mrs John James Preston rather than plain Carrie Bradshaw at a time when women were struggling to get out of their second class citizen spot. Despite many decades of feminism, the notion of male primacy is so deeply etched that women will elbow each other out of the way for male attention. And they will compete on just about every other level.
If they were completely honest with themselves they would admit they treat their women friends as a filler when there is no decent man about. Call me churlish if you want.
If one of her occasional lovers was passing through, Helen would feel absolutely no shame at phoning just before soup was served with a ''so sorry darls but Boris from Barnawartha just rang.....''
Somewhere around the middle of the movie I unfolded my arms and changed my expression into something resembling a smile.
Sure, the show was no work of art but it wasn't all bad. The 40-something Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte, and the 50-year-old Samantha fully supported each other and had done so for 20 years, even though they had men in their lives. They could have competed and put each other down, but they didn't. Perhaps women are becoming more kind.
violetrose@live.com.au
Email a friend
Favourites
Del.icio.us
Facebook
Digg
StumbleUpon
MySpace
Reddit
Newsvine
LinkedIn
Kwoff