My friend Julie called me last week after seeing the Sex in the City movie with her college-aged daughter.

Julie: Oh my God!  They are so us.

Joan:  Which one am I?

Julie:  It’s obvious.  You’re Miranda.

Joan: No way!  I’m Carrie.

Julie: No you’re not.  You’re totally Miranda.

Joan :  I am not!  I’m the writer.  And, I’m the only one of the J’s who would dress like Carrie.  Well, if I could pull it off, which I can’t with my figure.  But still, I’M Carrie.  PLEASE tell me I’m Carrie.

Julie: Okay, honey.  The J’s will let you pretend you’re Carrie if you want.  But you’re really Miranda.

So Wednesday night, Julie and Johnna and I drove to the big city to see the movie about the series we all love and to sort out which J got to claim which character.  And we laughed and we cried.  And every single time Miranda said something snotty, or made a list, or argued her point, or complained about how busy she was and how little time she had, Julie turned to Johnna and said “See?  She’s totally Miranda.”  

“No, I’m not!” I kept protesting.  “I’m Carrie!”

Until the beach scene.  And finally, the jig was up.  Miranda’s woeful lack of, um, personal grooming  was the final nail in my coffin.  “Oh my God.  I AM Miranda,” I whispered to my friends.

Don’t you hate it when your girlfriends are right?

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Postscript to the J who lives in Kansas:  Janet, honey, we’ve all voted and decided you’re Charlotte.  That’s a good thing, so take pride in your unquestioned virtue and infinite sweetness.  Lord knows I’ll never get mistaken for Charlotte.