Since E started airing all episodes of Sex and the City, I've been happily catching up on all that I've been missing since my DVD collection never made the move out of the city with me (some lucky person who frequents the Salvation Army is enjoying my repertoire as a bonus to his TV stand purchase).
Last night's episode was the famous post-Aidan break up (part 1) trip to LA where Samantha and Carrie consider buying a fake Fendi, only to realize just how sad the impostors look in the trunk of the car in 'the Valley'. Happily the story concludes with a reflection on how, even if others are fooled, Carrie would always know her bag was a fake. A victory for fashionistas and intellectual property lawyers alike.
Unfortunately not all North Shore Long Islanders adopt this philosophy, and I was forced to share a train seat with one such offender. It was bad enough that my warmest winter coat just barely zips over my 26 week stomach, the train arrived 15 minutes late, stopped numerous times between stations, and then crawled into Penn Station with the effort of an elderly man on oxygen. But the entire ride a large, middle aged woman insisted on resting her faux Gucci bag against my thigh, pressing it more firmly into me with each voyage her hand took to retrieve another snack. I tried to escape the contact of the vile object (made from who knows what), but I could only plaster myself against the armrest so hard before it began leaving an imprint in my side. Somewhere outside of Jamaica I couldn't tolerate it any longer, and found refuge standing near the doors. I suppose this is something I'll have to adjust to as a suburbanite.