Calling all ye faithfuls

Watching Sex and the City back to back (seasons, not episodes…yea, I know I am a freak) made me realize how similar I am to my mum. Ever since I can remember, my mum got intensely involved with what was happening on the screen. If the vamp was mistreating the heroine on screen, and it was going on and on without anyone interfering and telling the vamp off, there would be a point when my mum would get really worked up and exclaim, “That’s too much, how can she do that?”

From what I remember, that was always the elastic point. The point where the screenwriter made a mental note that said, ‘This is it, now send in the rescue men/women’. My reaction to all such agitated dialogues was an amused “Mum, it’s just fiction, why are you getting all worked up?”

True, but by the same logic I ought not to get irritated when I watch Carrie swoon over all the wrong men in her life and bypass the man she ought to be with. According to me, that is. (And for the record, Mr Right is Aidan Shaw. Aww, that man is just too good to be true. And she breaks his heart??? That’s too much, that woman deserves to be put away in an asylum.) My self-realization happened when I happened to mention it to hubby in a moment of utter irritation at the treatment of Messrs Shaw.

“Why does she keep going back to that dick Mr Big?”

My husband for all his angst against the creators of Sex and the City (his official view? Ban the show, its taking our women away) looked at me in a moment of utter logic and patiently said, “Honey, how is the series ever going to go on, if she turns to Mr Right?”

There. The most logical answer that I, in my TV induced stupor, otherwise perfectly capable of logic and reason, had failed to recognize.