Why Samantha’s Hormonal Hell in “Sex and the City 2” Is The Awful Film’s Most Relatable Moment
When it’s a rainy Saturday afternoon and the allergies you inherited as a gift for welcoming your forties kick in with a vengeance, there’s nothing else to do but tuck in and lazily gaze at a bad movie.
Sex and the City 2 — arrived just in time and I allowed myself the opportunity to recall if it was as bad as I thought it was when my friend and I treated ourselves to the premier back in the summer of 2010.
Of course that was almost a decade ago, when I was younger and naively confident about the future and how it would play out in my favor.
In 2010, I was stationed at a cubicle in the building that managed the multi-million dollar assets of America’s wealthiest, and in order to validate the hours spent processing due diligence forms, I gingerly secured an over-priced studio in the Upper East Side section of Manhattan.
It was there, during my off time that I convinced myself that I was the more modest version of Carrie Bradshaw, since there was no way I could afford the spacious apartment or the hundreds of dollars she spent on Christian Louboutin heels.
But I was doing okay for a single New Yorker who managed to juggle her day job with writing duties, that were hosted in a room with…
