These Days by Stephanie

Working from home has equally great advantages and disadvantages. I don’t have to race into the shower, wash and blow dry my hair, and figure out what outfit to wear. Rather, I can slip into the black cotton one-piece overall I just bought from an online discount dance wear store and hit the desk. It can also get lonely. Sometimes I miss contact: the pulse of the newsroom, the “story” conferences, the chaos, getting dressed up.
I’ve devised a guilty pleasure when I need a break from coaching, writing, research and generally over-cranking brain: I watch a half-hour of television. What with the invention of DVR, I can watch what would typically be a one-hour show in thirty minutes, and get my fix of fantasy – and pseudo human contact.
Typically, I watch NCIS, Criminal Minds, The Mentalist, or one of the many CSIs. The other day while riding the subway, I realized that I’ve been watching far too many forensic and behavioral analysis shows: Everyone on the train looked suspicious. I was profiling the high school kid playing games on his PDA to the women with Bloomingdale’s Big Brown Bags. Even the cops looked suspect to me.
And so, on Sunday when my husband hit the links, I decided to finally watch the movie version of Sex and the City rather than work at the computer. Another disadvantage of working from home – if you’re not careful, you’re always “at the office.” My 24-year-old daughter, my girlfriends and even some guy friends said “it’s actually a pretty good movie.” Even some critics were pleasantly surprised. There were those who panned it, of course, including my sister (not a critic, but an avid moviegoer). She “hated it” – except for the clothes, shoes, and Kim Cattrall all of which and whom she reviewed as “divine.”
For me, it was the perfect movie for a lazy Sunday afternoon. Now, I only watched the last season of the show and an occasional re-run here and there. I knew that Carrie Bradshaw and Mr. Big had a stormy and passionate relationship, and I knew the storylines behind Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte.
It took me three days to watch that movie, not merely because it was two and a half hours long, and even with the fast forward through dull scenes that’s kind of lengthy, but because it made me nervous. I couldn’t take the Sturm and Drang of the relationships.
So, what’s the reason I’m suddenly more at ease with shows depicting a corpse on a slab in the medical examiner’s office rather than two people who are in love and have a break-up, an argument or misunderstanding? What’s happened to the “me” who always loved a good cry and a love story – An Affair to Remember, Pretty Woman, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg – I’ve watched them over and over (yes, my tastes are eclectic – classics to chick-flicks. Feel free to write letters of condemnation).
So, why did I have such an anxiety attack with a movie as seemingly benign as Sex and the City?
Why? Because the movie wasn’t about sex and the city. It was an urban fairytale about love and relationships. Despite all the distractions of haute couture, jewel-toned Manolos and unrealistically lavish pre-war New York City apartments, I was stuck on the angst of Carrie and Big, and Miranda and Steve, and even felt sorry for Samantha when she lay naked covered with home-made sushi awaiting hunky Smith on Valentine’s Day who showed up late with a pathetic box of candy.
That’s why.
And I’m a life coach? Well, self-awareness is half the battle to life changes…
I was tempted to fast forward my DVR to the end of the movie. Watch it backwards. Make sure there was a happy ending. Then I could weather the ups and downs of the relationships.
For the last couple of days I have wrestled with my reaction during the three-day viewing and I’ve concluded that despite my newfound propensity for forensic and criminal behavior shows, I have clearly become faint of heart.
Last Saturday was our wedding anniversary. It hasn’t always been an easy path for the last 28 years, but then again, after 28 years, who can truly say it’s been all bliss? For awhile, it was downright painful, and every so often wounds re-open, and I’m the first to admit that except for scrapes and bruises, I don’t heal well or easily. With stuff of the superficial variety, I don’t scar. I’d probably be a perfect candidate for a facelift.  Emotionally, I’m a keloid former.
There was a time that I wanted to fast forward my life…find out where the path was taking me, if it was merely a detour or were my husband and I headed in totally different directions. I had to plod along, see what happened when I came to a clearing in the forest, see if I’d know where I was and if I wanted to be there. Even now, as my husband and I toasted one another last Saturday night, I did so with trepidation. To make matters worse, as a writer of fiction, I keep anticipating future chapters – wondering how they’ll be written, how they’ll play out…really just wanting “happy” in the now without the ending.
In the movie, if Steve and Miranda meet on the Brooklyn Bridge (way over the top symbolism, but it still made me weepy) on a designated day, at a designated time (all under the advice of their therapist) when they will put the past behind them, never to visit it again, and move forward. For those of you who haven’t seen the movie, I won’t tell you what happens although I am probably the only person on earth who didn’t know what would happen.
Needless to say, I won’t be watching Sex and the City 2 unless someone can lace my popcorn with a sedative. Back to the Behavioral Analysis Unit for me.