Sex and the City Countdown

Craig Blankenhorn/New Line Cinema

"After years of living in the city, I always assumed that if my friends and I ever got our fairy tale endings, that would be the end of the story." Carrie Bradshaw

They're ba-aack. Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte. They've started to tease us and I have to admit it's working. I'm psyched. Pumped. Practically panting with eagerness to see the movie version of HBO's boffo chick hit Sex and the City.

Admit it, if you're a Baby Boomer or younger, you were hooked on the show too. You can tell me in a flash if you're a Carrie, a Miranda or a Charlotte. (Few admit to being a Samantha, though 'fess up, girls, there's a little of her in all of us).

Yes it was a chick show. The fashion, the sophistication, the fashion, the rich and famous, the fashion, the hot men, the hot spots and high life all had appeal. But that was surface stuff. Whipped Cream. Window dressing. Really.

Some few New York fashionistas will claim haute couture was a separate character in Sex and the City. Maybe it was. But in the end, as shallow a figure as those who crave its expensive, empty rewards.

Most women viewers of the show, no matter their age, will tell you we related mainly to women -- and their relationships. The tight friendships. The interactive support, counsel and love only women instinctively know how to supply.

We lived inside those girls, felt their joy and pain. Understood their angst, anger, aggravation and attitudes about men. About each other. Careers. Sex. Marriage. Children. Other People. Lifestyles. The Future.

No matter what they wore--even $800 shoes--or how extravagantly they lived, at heart, they were Us. Their experiences, dates, lovers, hopes, dreams, foibles, failures, ups and downs--and their romances, especially their romances--were ours too.

We've all been breathless with love, learned that it makes us high, low, happy, helpless, hopeless and strong. We've most of us found that successful relationships come with strings. Conditions. Compromise.

Our Sex and the City counterparts learned about love the hard way too.

Sappy, WASPy Charlotte found her dream man in a bald, chubby nice Jewish guy. Ms. tough cookie, claw's-bared Miranda learned to relax into a bartender's arms. Even savvy, swinging Samantha seemed ready to dial it back for the younger but wiser Smith.

And Carrie the Everywoman got her--no, Our--Mr. Big. The happy ending we wanted--no, Needed--her to achieve. Cinderella and the Prince. A fantasy? Yes. But some solid reality and lots of entertaining fun.

The New York Times is busy examining the marketing and product placement aspects of the movie. Most of us don't care. And won't be buying a Mercedes or some Manolos after viewing the film.

We'll be too busy dishing about what we saw and what's going to happen to our friends next.