Between a Carrie and a Bridget

"It's so Sex and the City! I can imagine you like Carrie sitting on the bed tummy down, legs in the air, writing your blog!" 

(My friend Sara B., Whatsapp conversation, commenting on the picture I sent her of my new studio apartment)

Last week, I moved into my very own apartment. Granted, it's a studio (but a big one!) and it's in Dubai (they say Dubai is the new New York, no?) but whatever it is, it is my own. And it's the first time I actually live alone. Now that came with two, distinct feelings: one of amazing excitement at finally having MY space, my bed, my freedom to dance around naked with Lana Del Ray blasting if that's what I choose to do. And then there was this inexplicable ball of knots in my stomach. Something telling me that settling on my own like that could mean I am setting myself up to being alone. Forever. 

And so came flooding in the usual comparisons for single women in their 30s who live alone. Our "role models" throughout the latter part of the 90s and onwards. The Carrie and Bridget generation.

I guess I've always felt a sort of affinity towards the Carrie character. She's a writer who lives alone, in New York City --she wears her heart on her sleeve, writes to the world about her dating life which is constantly going up and down, and she tries to water down her innate romanticism to fit into the realm of "I've got my feet on the ground"...  I'm basically her, if you remove the shoe obsession and the fabulous fashion sense.  

And then there's Bridget, who lately I've been feeling oddly similar to. She's also a writer (or she works in publishing and writes a diary) who becomes a reporter (been there, done that) who is single and lives alone even though she's past 30. She struggles to get to the gym and lose those extra 4 kilos. She gets her heart broken and then sings "All by myself" with a brush in her hand. She gets invited to dinner with four other couples (and she's the only odd one out). She gets asked why she's still single (as if there's a good answer to that question) and is met with a round of "we need to find you a good man" as if she hasn't tried. 

A few weeks ago, I was invited to dinner with three couples. One couple who just got engaged and were telling us all about the proposal. One couple who was just about to get married and were telling us all about the wedding preparations. And the third who are expecting a baby and who were telling us way more then I ever wanted to know about being pregnant. To say that I felt like an alien from another planet is an understatement. I thought to myself: this is it. The Bridget Jones syndrome. Somehow, I've reached it.

I read that book when I was 14 years-old and back then, Bridget was just a fun, quirky, lovable character who was just so desperately unlucky --but it was cute and acceptable, because it was a story, and a good story always ends with the love factor. I never thought of her as a desperate 30-something, in love with a asshole, who has to change careers and start all her life over. And I never imagined I would be in her shoes. 

But here's what I've noticed: It's really the ending that makes it all okay. It's not the fact that she gets her act together, starts loving her job and goes to the gym a couple of times like she's finally taking control. No. That's only what helps her get her MAN. 

Because in the end, whatever the story is... however feminist, however avant-garde, it almost, always ends with something love. 

And so from my little apartment in Dubai, tummy down and feet up in the air, I keep writing my story; one faced-fear after the other.... and as far as the ending goes --I guess we'll see.