Will The Real Carrie Bradshaw Please Stand Up?

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There was an article in the New York Times this weekend about the latest crop of Carrie Bradshaw-wannabes, who chronicle their dating lives and hope to land their own Mr. Big. The article made me smile because for as long as Sex and the City has been around, so have a slew of “real-life” Carries, who went to fabulous parties, wore fabulous clothes, dated fabulous men and most importantly, wrote about it.

Including me.

Yep. I, too, detailed my love life, disasters, dramas, one-night stands and all, for everyone from Cosmopolitan to MSN to my own blog(s). And like Julia Allison and Alyssa Shelasky from the Times piece, I suffered the various consequences of living what should have been my private life in public—including guys whose primary interest in dating me was so they could get a mention in my column to men who didn’t like how they were portrayed (“muppet-mouth kisser”; “penny-pinching narcissist”) and would send me huffy and hurt emails afterward. No surprise that the former and latter were usually the same guys.

However, unlike these ladies, I wasn’t dating and writing during this complete glut of Internet and blogging mayhem. So I was spared snarky commentary from other blogs and could still date in relative anonymity, which was probably a blessing. I think because I was working on music as well, I tended to see these columns solely as a means to pay rent and a cross-promotional tool for my other career. They weren’t a way for me to get rich, famous and/or laid, as they seem to be for Ms. Allison. (Sorry, am I being snarky, now?)

Julia and Henry Kissinger

Me and some actor

However, the amount of times I was referred to (or even referred to myself) as a “real-life Carrie Bradshaw” was numerous and embarrassing. And the parallels I could draw between Carrie and me were eerie, including being whisked off to Paris by my own Mr. Big and subsequently being lonely, ignored and bored like Carrie was when she went to Paris with the Russian.

So okay, it’s not a total case of life imitating art, but I remember iChatting at the time with one of my best gay friends and I was complaining that I was left by myself all day and had nothing to do. “But you’re in Paris! How can you be bored?” he wrote. “OMG, you’re JUST LIKE CARRIE when she went to Paris. LOL.”

Except when you’re living it, it’s not such an LOL matter. Personal heartache, though it makes for good blogging (not to mention, songs), should have some space and privacy—not be blasted across the Internet so anonymous others can take potshots at your pain. But that’s what you sign up for when your reality becomes everyone else’s entertainment, at your own behest. And to be fair, for all the haters, there tend to be just as many fans.

I wrote a piece for MSN a year or so ago about being the Other Woman. I wrote it as a coda to a storyline that was playing out as I ended my tenure as Cosmo’s Dating Diarist but mainly, I wrote it to, again, pay the rent. (All those martinis and Manolos aren’t going to pay for themselves! Kidding…) The response to that piece was like nothing I’d ever seen before. Millions of people read the article and about 10,000 people actually emailed me their own stories, requests for advice, for dates (!) and to blast me for being a “slut,” “homewrecker,” “whore,” etc and so on.

I got one email from a 19-year-old girl who berated me for writing the piece in order to get famous. She then proceeded to tell me the sad story of her own father’s infidelity and how it tore her family apart. I felt sorry for her and her family, but at the same time, I was overwhelmed by the pain and confusion of 9,999 other people who saw me as a modern-day Hester Prynne-meets-Dear-Abby. All because I was trying to pay my landlord on time—not so my scarlet letter A would take me to some unforeseen heights of notoriety.

But like I said, those are the consequences of airing your private affairs in public, whatever your reasons for doing so.

Do I miss being “the real-life Carrie Bradshaw”? Only as much as I miss being single, which really isn’t that much. The parties were fun. The ritzy dinners with the famous dates were flattering. But the overblown dramas, the non-stop static in a 20-something’s head and the not knowing what or how to ask for what you want is just a frustrating, depressing and (usually drunk) place to be.

I can’t wait for the Sex and the City movie, though.

As an utter romantic, I hope art imitates life and Carrie winds up with her Big—whether in Paris or not—just like I did.

Everyone can gag and send me hate mail now…

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Tags: Alyssa Shelasky, Blogs, Carrie Bradshaw, Channeling Carrie, Cosmopolitan Magazine, Dating, dating columnist, Dating Diarist, Dear Abby, fabulous, fame, gawker.com, Henry Kissinger, Hester Prynne, homewrecker, Internet, Julia Allison, Maggie Kim, Manolos, martinis, Mr. Big, MSN, new york times, one-night stands, Paris, private life, Ralph Fiennes, real-life, rich and famous, scarlet letter, Sex, Sex and the City, Sex and the City movie trailer, slut, snarky, The Other Woman, wedding, writer