What, precisely, constitutes time? It increasingly feels as though the series "And Just Like That..." is either oblivious to this concept, indifferent to it, or perhaps both! How liberating it must be. However, seriously considering the matter, I revisited the opening sequences numerous times, pondering why we witnessed Carrie meticulously chronicling what appeared to span a solid eight months of seasonal transitions, only to discover later that a mere three months had elapsed since the previous episode's happenings. Why does this bother me so deeply? Let's postulate that the entire sequence was merely intended to illustrate that amidst other occurrences, Carrie has been diligently at work. And lo and behold, she has completed her memoir! Alas, she harbors a twinge of insecurity about it, as her editor Amanda, in essence, suggests that "Loved & Lost" is quite a downer.
Amanda adores Carrie's departure from her "Sex and the City" writing style but hesitates to alienate fans who might be deterred by such relentless gloominess (how meta, indeed!). Amanda proposes a tweak: What if the book could conclude with even a minute "glimmer of hope"? Essentially, Amanda believes Carrie should embark on a date and document it in an epilogue. It doesn't necessitate Carrie embarking on a dating spree; just one date could suffice. A small beacon of light for the future. Do it for your audience, Carrie.
Carrie decides to take the plunge. Her friends eagerly lend a helping hand—Charlotte, naturally, being the most enthusiastic, already penning in her diary about how she can hardly wait for the day Carrie entrusts her with unleashing the Divorced Dads, the Kraken of the Upper East Side. Unfortunately, today is not that day. Carrie does not fancy being set up with anyone her friends know. This is anonymous. It's for professional purposes. It's likely to be a catastrophe. Fortunately, Seema, bored during a few slow real estate months, decides to "list" Carrie on several dating sites for kicks. Carrie is a hot commodity, apparently. But this whole endeavor hinges on Carrie, who eventually summons the courage to connect with Peter, a handsome teacher-turned-widower.
Both Peter and Carrie confess that this is their first date since losing their spouses, and the evening is, well, awkward. After sharing the harrowing details of their spouses' demise—quite an intense icebreaker—they conclude what could ease the tension: alcohol. Loads of it. We cut to the conclusion of the date, where Carrie and Peter stumble out of the restaurant, giggling. They are utterly plastered. It looks like they're having a blast! Then Peter pukes. Not just a mild retch. Projectile vomiting. And then Carrie pukes too. And then they're puking on/near each other. It's chaotic. Honestly, I'm quite pleased with myself for maintaining composure throughout this recap, pretending as though everything is ordinary, rather than bursting out at the onset, screaming, "IN THIS EPISODE, PEOPLE THROW UP ON EACH OTHER!!!" Because, folks, in this episode, people throw up on each other.
Understandably, Carrie is utterly mortified. At the charity auction for Charlotte's children's school, where an opportunity to share a lunch with Carrie Bradshaw is up for grabs, the entire crew gathers. Carrie recounts the tale to her friends, who attempt to offer reassurance. Anthony confesses that he once soiled his pants on a date, but quickly adds that this happened when he was in seventh grade and without the added complexity of recently losing a husband, rendering his anecdote entirely unhelpful. Carrie has already confessed to Miranda her contemplation of swearing off sex altogether, asserting that while the notion of never having sex again is strange, the prospect of intimacy with anyone but Big is even more distressing. Now, she's contemplating abandoning traditional dating altogether. All semblance of hope appears extinguished, buried beneath a blanket of despair or, perhaps, coated in vomit.
Ironically, Peter makes an appearance at the charity event. Carrie goes to great lengths to steer clear of him, deploying Anthony as her spy to ensure he's exited the premises. Little does she know, her near-encounter with "Professor Puke" is merely the prelude to an evening filled with humiliation. As if Carrie hadn't endured sufficient embarrassment in the past 24 hours, it's now time for her "item" to be auctioned. Herbert, though seemingly a gem of a man, introduces it as "a date with sex writer Carrie Bradshaw," much to her chagrin. It's emphatically not meant to be a date, and she finds the "sex writer" moniker offensive. As she stands on stage, crickets chirp in response to the auctioneer's calls. Herbert even slashes the price, heightening her embarrassment. Charlotte's attempted bid only compounds the ordeal. Desperate to end her public humiliation, Carrie bids on herself — $1,000, if you please, let's put an end to this national spectacle. To her astonishment, Professor Puke, who hadn't actually left, notices the unfolding drama and places a bid of $1,050, driven perhaps by a combination of guilt over the vomiting incident, genuine kindness, and an abundance of wealth.
At the event's conclusion, he assures Carrie that they need not proceed with the lunch, nor does she owe him anything for his bid; it's all for the children. Suddenly, a glimmer of hope flickers to life. On a whim, she decides they should indeed go out for lunch. Why not? Their dates already have one of the lowest bars for success. Even if romance with Peter fails to blossom, spending time with someone who comprehends her turmoil could prove beneficial. Peter might just be what Carrie needs. With renewed optimism, she heads home to work on an epilogue, eager to delight Amanda with her tale.
