The strappy sandals were the only pair of shoes that Miranda Hobbes owned that were not completely utilitarian. She took them from the shoe rack in her as she got home from the law office where she had been working all summer. She kicked off the sensible shoes with the chunky heels that she wore to work. The boiled wool suit that was her work uniform lay in a heap on her bedroom floor.
This was not just any Friday. No, today she had received word that she had passed the New York bar exam. She had more than passed it. She had scored in the upper five percentile statewide.
She had thought of calling her parents back in Philadelphia with the news but decided against it. Her mother would no doubt break into some story about the upcoming wedding of Miranda's older sister, a milestone she would no doubt consider much more important. Her father would say, "You sure are lucky." It was just too depressing. She could wait until they called her on Sunday morning.
She took Gloria Vanderbilt jeans from their hanger on the closet and tossed them on the bed. She found the silk top with the spaghetti straps. She went into the bathroom and applied her lipstick. She came to the realization that she was getting ready to go out. But she couldn't go out alone. It was pathetic, and it wasn't even safe.
It suddenly hit her that she knew very few people in New York. She knew a few people from work, but not well. The office was a place where she went to work, not make friends. She had spent every second she could spare studying for the bar exam. She admitted to herself that she was lonely, an unusual occurrence for Miranda.
She hauled her geeked-up self to the small café down the street. At this hour, it was packed. She placed her order and then she groaned inwardly. This had all been a mistake. She was about to cancel her order and go back to her apartment and send out for Chinese food when she saw a blonde woman around her own age sitting alone at one of the tables. There was something strangely approachable about her. She found herself asking this stranger if she could share the table.
"Oh, sure. Have a seat," she replied. "I am just waiting for my girlfriends, Samantha and Charlotte to show up. We're going to get a little something to eat and go out dancing."
The two women fell easily into conversation. They each had something to celebrate that night. Miranda had passed the bar. Carrie had just been given her own column at The New York Star. Carrie explained that she was wanting to cover the fashion scene and social scene in Manhattan. She just didn't have a name yet. "I want something that let's the reader know what to expect – that it's about relationships and all the nightlife in this big, wonderful city."
"There you are – Sex and the City," Miranda said.
"That's it," Carrie exclaimed. Just then Charlotte and Samantha walked in.
Sex and the City
Carrie Bradshaw
Four girlfriends – the outrageous publicist, the Episcopalian princess, the skeptical attorney and the columnist -- met last evening over French fries and salads. They talked about their jobs, the men in their lives … and their aspirations. It turns out that what they have in common is much greater than the sum of their differences.
This column, SEX AND THE CITY, is new. It's dedicated to the women of Manhattan – those chic creatures who love fashion, who sometimes struggle with relationships, who love being in the know about the latest and greatest places to hang out. This column is for you.