Sex Teaches us About Labels, Love

Like the legions of gals, gays, and whipped boyfriends the world over, I went to see the Sex and the City movie this weekend. Out of respect to my friends near and far who haven’t had the chance to view it yet I’ll keep my commentary spoiler free, but I would like to say that the movie did nothing to ruin the series that saw me through night after night for almost a year abroad, and guided the metaphoric arcs I strived to achieve in every one of my columns, and now this blog. Cynics beware: this movie, like the series, is about love. It opens with the idea that every young woman (and young gay?) moves to NYC for the two L’s: Labels and Love.

Initially of course I found this ridiculous. Yes, the show had always had heavy doses of fashion and was about the ups and downs (and ins and outs) of dating in NYC, but it was a bold and broad assertion to say it was what drew everyone to this city. Every year countless college grads move here with dreams of raking in the money on Wall St., publishing the next great American novel, being discovered as a new break out star and runway model, or merely to escape whatever circle of hell that small-town America was for them, and hopped the next Greyhound to the Big Apple. Very few of these brave and adventurous souls came here merely for the fashion, although it does quickly become part of your consciousness. Whether it’s the media frenzy surrounding Fashion Week, the red carpet premieres, boutiques, or Page 6, couture becomes hard to ignore, and personal style goes hand in hand with personality.

But perhaps it’s other labels that people come to NYC to don. The finance major wants to be a banker and hedge fund manager, the student who paints as a hobby wants to be known as an artist, the singer a star, the writer a luminary, and the small town kid maybe just wants to be anonymous. For others it could be to escape the labels that’d been sewn on their adolescent attire. The jock takes to the stage, the bimbo cheerleader exercises her PR prowess, the nerd becomes the stud with a penthouse, the Goth girl now guards the door of the hottest new underground venue, and that little gay kid finds himself in a field where his expertise is not only respected, but demanded.

My best friend moved to Shanghai under the mantle of “Bai Ni,” or “white girl,” that her college Chinese teacher had dubbed her. But has proven how valuable her Western experience can be in the fields of PR and Marketing. Perhaps it’s not the labels we seek to adopt, but what we do with what we are given that proves how well we can live up to our names. Either way, taking the leap from college to the big city or abroad does not guarantee success. A desire for reinvention opens the door for transformation, but it must be coupled with passion and hard work if you want others to see you for the real thing; otherwise you are just another Canal St. knockoff.

This is where love comes in. Sex and the City credits itself with imbuing young people with a desire to move to NYC, and that is probably part of it for many, but the reality is much less shiny than the illusion. Only a lasting and true passion for the city that never sleeps allows the strong to survive. For this reason just as many young professionals leave NYC for their home or college town, pleased with just a few years in the mythic home of Carrie Bradshaw. Those that come here and stay have found love share it with Ms. Bradshaw, a love for the city itself.

Like the trials and tribulations that I have oft discussed about dating and relationships, the city can wear you down or lift you to dizzying heights all in the course of a weekend. Some may label us as lucky, while we sometimes see ourselves as impoverished. We feel cultured and elite, and others think we’re foolhardy. But love is blind and sometimes we don’t notice how much a relationship has changed us until it’s over. If you move here just for the label of New Yorker, chances are a few years down the line you’ll hang it up in your closet and only briefly miss its concrete beneath your feet once a year when you come to the city for a girls’ weekend of shopping and shows. For those, NYC was a passing fancy and not a lifetime love. For the rest, it’s decades of apartment hopping, and social climbing, a never-ending cycle that never fails to reinvent itself just when you think you have the hang of it.

So how do we reconcile our motivation for love and labels, ambition and ambivalence? Is it possible to separate the desire to succeed in our careers and succeed at life in the nation’s most expensive small town? How long does it take until the label of New Yorker feels natural and authentic? And what about love? Is it impossible to manage relationships here when we are constantly trying to balance our commitment to the city?

Perhaps that is love after all. As Faulkner said, “...you don't love because: you love despite; not for virtues but despite faults.” There are many things to love, and many things to hate, but you live in spite of those things. One of the many virtues I will always love about this city is its seemingly endless opportunities to find new places, things, and people to love. Not to mention the countless chances to redefine yourself.

We may not all come here because we wanted to be relabeled, but we stay because we can. We may not have come to escape love gone sour, but to surround ourselves with people who know that both labels and love can be fleeting, so we might as lead a fabulous life, at least that’s how I would label mine, and yes, right now, I do love it.