I'm in it for the shoes, still

I'm in it for the shoes : a meditation on life, aging, and Sex in the City I know you're thinking that Amanda, the one that was Annie for a brief while and married the movie star, Samantha, and Miranda are old news these days, but so am I. Sex and the city captured a moment - a moment I hated with every fiber in my stretch boot-cut hipster jeans. Except the shoes. And the purses. As I sit here, now that the dream is over, I can see the outlines somewhat more clearly. Our four over-privileged friends represented life before the crash, when everything was a go, when the threat of global warming just made your moisturizer choice slightly more difficult. Each sister was buffed to a high gloss and decked out like she was owned by the most anal-retentive barbie owner ever. They were not real, our fine feckled quadruple, but that irreality just increased their charm. They somehow lived with all possible benefits -- lush Manhhttan apartments free from bedbugs and roommates that ate your yogurt, wore your clothes, and made those wierd noises when watching Jersey Shore. But now a wild antidote has appeared.