If you’re uninhibited and prone to monologues regarding your pelvic floor, you’re a Samantha. If you’re a narcissist who’s knee-deep in Klarna loans for your RealReal purchases, you’re a Carrie. And if you subscribe to the revisionist take that Miranda’s pragmatic, no-nonsense approach to life makes her an unsung hero of feminism – then your choice is obvious.
Any woman with a television has at some point in the past two decades played “which Sex and the City character are you?” I’ve met self-proclaimed Carries, Samanthas, and Mirandas. But very rarely does one ever meet a willing Charlotte.
And why would they? She’s the most maligned of the foursome. Sex and the City was a groundbreaking show that revolutionized TV’s portrayal of what it means to be a single woman. But Charlotte, a prim gallerina whose sole aspiration consists of locking down a Wasp husband, remained a bridge to the past. Her prudishness was a foil to the sexploits of her more adventurous friends. She’s “Park Avenue Pollyanna”, a killjoy, and moralist who literally runs away from the table when a playful brunch conversation turns to the topic of how semen tastes.
All six seasons of Sex and the City launched on Netflix this week, spawning many think-pieces with writers worrying that gen Z cannot “handle” the watch. After all, this is a show that’s long been criticized for its lack of diversity, offensive portrayal of LGBTQ+ characters, and out-of-touch class politics. These writers fear that, much like Charlotte, gen Z takes itself too seriously to understand that comedy is a product of its time that usually doesn’t hold up years later.
Charlotte is proof that if you ride out a dorky trend long enough, it’ll become cool.
But as a gen Z elder who has watched the entire series no less than four times, I would like to say that this is unfair. Despite generalizations regarding my cohorts being too sensitive for even the slightest discomforts of adulthood, I have full faith in us to understand that times were different 26 years ago. We can handle it.
Having said that, I think my generation’s read on the show will be different. For millennials, Miranda was always the coolest of the foursome. But for gen Z, I think Charlotte is finally going to get her due. In many ways, my generation has been saying “I’m a Charlotte” even if they don’t know it. Here’s why:
She’s a foremother of “quiet luxury”:
There’s an aspirational gen Z trend of dressing richly but not ostentatiously. Think stealth wealth: Sofia Richie wearing a simple white – but expensive – Prada dress on a summer day or a TikToker romping around Paris in the $1,130 Toteme scarf jacket. Charlotte, similarly, idolizes old money glamour, signaling her status in understated Ralph Lauren, Oscar de la Renta, and Vera Wang – all very desirable these days. Every day was a weekend at the country club for Charlotte. She didn’t need to splash sartorially like Carrie in her tutus or deliberately dress down à la Miranda’s proto-normcore. Your coastal grandmother wishes she might flex that subtly.
She’s a prude:
Charlotte has her share of sexcapades – she’s the only one of the main four who admits to performing “tuchus-lingus”, justifying this by the fact that she’s only done it under the sanctity of marriage.
But overall, many of her bedroom antics, or lack thereof, are framed as Victorian.