admin The latest episode of And Just Like That begins with a familiar scene. The women of Sex and the City are sitting at a fancy lunch spot, talking about men over artfully presented salads. Well, one man specifically: Aidan Shaw, Carrie’s former flame whom she will be meeting for dinner after emailing him out of the blue.
This week, AJLT marks Valentine’s Day with predictable mortification. Anthony appears on The Drew Barrymore Show with a Hot Fellas bakery delivery man whose crotch area has the audience suddenly craving a baguette. Charlotte gets baked in a totally different way, and ends up in the hospital. Miranda’s current dilemma—working out whether or not she is a lesbian—takes her into the arms of a seductively dressed audiobook narrator who reads her favorite Jane Austen novels. As I watched Carrie’s new bestie Seema Patel shout “Single people have rights!” after discovering that only couples could book massages at a spa, a strange feeling took over. I suddenly realized: Am I… actually… enjoying this?
I’ve watched every episode of AJLT so far, and I will continue to do so for as long as it’s on TV. If given the option, I’d willingly commit to 50 more seasons, until AI can bring us episodes starring a deepfake Carrie from beyond the grave.
However, the word “enjoy” isn’t necessarily one I’d choose to describe my viewing experience. “Disassociate” might be more accurate. Watching AJLT is akin to the feeling you get when a friend lets you down, so you set new expectations to stop them from hurting you again. From a safe distance, you watch them repeating their problematic behavior without getting upset because you’ve put a boundary in place. I still regard Sex and the City as a formative cultural influence, so I watch AJLT with a cautious “once bitten, twice shy” mentality.
After each episode, I clinically dissect all the things that didn’t work for me. Often, it’s how the old characters have changed, or why I’m not connecting with some of the new ones. I re-play the most bizarre moments, like in the very first episode of Season 2, when Carrie—a former sex columnist—refused to say the word “vagina” in a podcast advert and somehow ended up tanking her show and the entire production company. Or last week’s episode, in which she trudged through New York in a blizzard, wearing a giant Moncler puffer coat that was more elaborate than most wedding dresses I’ve seen. (We were supposed to believe she was storing it in her studio apartment? Please.) And don’t even get me started on comedian-turned-Airbnb-landlord-turned-dog-groomer Che Diaz.
