I used to watch Sex and the City as a high schooler and college student. In fact, there was one summer my younger (and of course wiser) brother and I had season-long marathons of the show to make sure we did not miss a single episode. Those were the days of Blockbuster movie rentals. When life was simpler, jobs nonexistent, and groceries were never-ending…name brand always.

Apparently those were also the days where people dressed like Miranda and got cat-called by every Tom, Dick and Harry on the street. Literally. I think there was an episode and all those bros were in it. But I’m here to ask the hard question, that I, at 30, cannot seem to get over. What the fuck Miranda?

The hair, the glasses, the clothes, the makeup, the sweaters, the green, the style, the constantly distasteful faces, the braces* (starred because as a keen observer will recall after one particularly embarrassing run-in with some high school girls she made the decision to switch to invisalign). I mean seriously. What the fuck. This woman was getting getting asked on a legitimate date every goddamn episode. She’s at the gym, sweating up a storm, face matching hair, and some hot-muscled bro approaches her all “yo girl, you look fine, let’s go get some drinks.” Now, we are already suspending reality to believe that this intelligent Harvard-educated high-pressured lifestyle attorney falls for this, but NOW you’re asking me to believe that this shit happens?? No.

Here I am, going about my life, looking like a fucking delight. I match, my hair is normal, face is fierce, wine in hand, and you know who asks me out? No one. You know who asks out my hot friends? No one. I mean sure, there are some flirtatious exchanges and “how you doing”s – but this is at 2 a.m., at a bar, closing, and everyone has secured a hefty bar tab. Yeah, let’s date. You’re so hot right now. Is that a polo and a dashing green checkered blazer? Oh, I love when your pants are skinnier than mine. Please, take me home. I totally see a sustainable winning and intelligent conversation with you over oysters and a bottle of pinot noir next Wednesday at 8. Oh, sorry, Let’s make it 7, Modern Family’s at 9. No, It doesn’t fucking happen. At no point that I am carrying on in a normal day am I EVER approached by a decent (looking) fella because he just thought I looked swell and wanted to actually get to know me at some later event, to be determined.

Now this has nothing to do with Cynthia Nixon (a doll, really), but about the fact that the same person tasked with dressing and styling Carrie, dressed and styled Miranda. Miranda. If she’s going to wear overalls and a sunflower jean bucket hat – treat her like she’s wearing overalls and a sunflower jean bucket hat!!! She already acts like it.

My nights end in cheese, boxed wine and some Chrisley Knows Best on demand (wondering when everyone is going to realize this is actually a mockumentary where the father is a sassy gay man and everyone but the family realizes it – you know, a la Ja’mie). I don’t need a woman who should, for all valid reasons, be the one shining example of female empowerment on that show to make me question my life choices. Miranda should be able to get any guy she wants. But she doesn’t. She gets asked out, all the fucking time, by these hot-ass mindless buttheads who are more in to how hot she is than who she is. What??!! She dresses like a 7^th grader in 1997 and has the self-confidence of a gawky Niles Crane. You’re better than that Miranda. And this shit does not happen.