Facing my fears

So I finally did it. I finally watched the last episode of Sex & the City. I'd been putting it off. I'd been dreading it. I'd been downright avoiding it. But I've seen it now, and lived to tell the tale.

Here's the thing: I knew Carrie was going to end up with Big. Someone had spoiled that for me long ago, although it wasn't the spoiler itself that bothered me; they never do, except in the case of American Idol results. It was this actual plot twist that bothered me; I knew that if I watched that final episode, I would see this thing that I didn't want to see.

It's because Big has always reminded me of Piano Man; in fact, there was a time when Piano Man was actually saved in my phone as "Big". It's the situation: man who is bad for you but whom you somehow cannot resist, who flits in and out of your life at the worst possible times, breaking your heart and so many false promises. It's the mannerisms: calling at ungodly hours, calling you "kid", apologizing with puppy dog eyes before fucking it up yet again, cheating on you and with you and thinking almost nothing of it. And it's even the looks, a little: the eyebrows, the hair, the expressions formed by the nose and mouth, the overall body shape. All too similar for my tastes.

And aren't I a little bit Carrie? Less-extravagent wardrobe aside, aren't I the writer who keeps no secrets from her friends or, come to think of it, the general public? Aren't I the one so ready to let herself fall back under his spell, to denounce him one minute and defend him the next, to watch herself trapped in these patterns of romantic destruction?

Carrie couldn't end up with Big because I couldn't end up with Piano Man. I wouldn't have wanted to. I told myself time and time again during that non-relationship that if the opportunity ever presented itself, I would've said no - I am not one to be cheated on, and like fuck he could ever stop cheating. But in truth, I'm glad that the opportunity never presented itself, because I'm not sure I really would've been strong enough to say no. That's a big part of why I hate him so much: because of the hold he had over me and probably still could. It was always him calling the shots, really, even when I thought it was me. And what I hate even more is that I am not unique in this; I am by no means the only girl so ready to cater to his whims: commit, back off, go down, get tied up, lie, apologize, sit, stay, roll over... I guess it kind of goes without saying that he makes me hate myself as well, even now that I'm dead to him and so much better off.

But really, Piano Man turned out not to be Mr Big, in the end. Carrie went to France, Big followed her to get her back. I went to France, largely to escape my destructive relationship with Piano Man, and he did not come after me, although he did call me long-distance and continue generally tormenting me long after I'd tried to cut him out of my life. Big appealed to Carrie's closest friends for their blessing, and got it. One of my closest friends has been known to have said of Piano Man, "Not enough bad things can happen to that person." Carrie admitted to wondering what her life would be like had she ended up with Big. Well, we all know that for me, that person is What-If Guy; when I fantasize about Piano Man, it usually involves me punching him. Obviously there was a lot more forgiveness - and forgiveableness - in the show than there could ever be in my reality.

Which is to say nothing of my subconscious. I dreamt about Piano Man again last night, yet another version of the recurring dream where we run into each other somewhere, and he says, "Elle, I want us to be friends again," and I say, "Me too," and then we wonder just how we're going to figure our significant others into this picture, knowing how much each of them hates the other of us, and how we're going to figure our friends into this picture, knowing how strongly they disapprove of us having anything to do with each other, however platonic, because of how much our personalities magnify each other, and how horrible we really are for each other. And then we're running, usually hand-in-hand, away from anyone who might find out, and it's us against the world, and we are obstinantly determined to make this thing, this simple, always-should-have-been friendship work, because we know how good we really are, in spite of what everyone else seems to think. This dream always leaves me feeling sad, nostalgic, and a little guilty, and momentarily diminishes my desire to hit him in the face. But somehow I can't make myself stop having it.

Today I move on to Desperate Housewives, which I'm sure will only open a whole new can of proverbial worms.