If you resonate with me in any capacity, there must have been instances during this And Just Like That … hiatus when you were going about your daily grind, only to be abruptly struck by the chilling revelation that Aidan dared ask Carrie to wait an excruciating five years for him. FIVE YEARS! A memory so bone-chilling, it has the power to shatter your entire day. In the season-three opener, we uncover that the intricacies of this peculiar pact are even more harrowing than we could have fathomed. Not only is Carrie consigned to a five-year wait to be with Aidan, as he grapples with his troubled 14-year-old son Wyatt, but they are also banned from visiting, calling, or even texting each other during this extended period! I beg to differ, but exchanging blank postcards (albeit adorned with Carrie's heartfelt doodles) hardly constitutes a relationship. This arrangement smacks of a hostage dilemma. How could Carrie Bradshaw, the woman who famously declared, "some women aren't meant to be tamed," find solace in such an arrangement? It defies logic. Anthony likens her to Rapunzel, languishing in her tower awaiting her prince, but this saga exudes a more sinister Miss Havisham aura, where instead of a wedding gown, Carrie will sport increasingly bizarre hats – and this is merely the prelude.
Despite Carrie seemingly turning a blind eye to the absurdity of her predicament – surely, they could have brainstormed alternatives to remaining committed without any interaction for half a decade – the show astutely telegraphs this conclusion from the outset. Initially, Anthony, who learns of the new arrangement during a friends-and-family preview of the NYC Ballet, fires off a barrage of pertinent questions, as any concerned friend would. Miranda and Charlotte, in their own way, adopt a "as long as you're happy" stance, which, while well-intentioned, fails to disguise Carrie's look of resignation rather than happiness. Anthony's probing about how this could constitute a relationship sans any communication timeline earns him gold stars for being a Concerned Friend par excellence. Yet, Carrie brushes him off, visibly peeved. Giuseppe, an angelic soul I fervently pray remains unscathed by this show, advises Anthony to ease up a bit. By episode's end, Anthony apologizes to Carrie for his judgmental stance. At least Carrie acknowledges that others have opinions about her situation, though Anthony is the lone vocal critic. She still strives to normalize this bizarre setup.
Carrie can feign nonchalance with her friends all she wants, but we bear witness firsthand – quite literally, through her hand – to the impending failure of this arrangement. Aidan, who solemnly vowed to abstain from speaking with the girlfriend he adores for five years, is the first to breach that sanctum, dialing Carrie in the dead of night, three beers deep, and hiding from his kids in his truck. I find it utterly hilarious that three beers scarcely tip ol' Country Lurch into a stupor. Not only does he violate his own rules, but he almost instantaneously, sans much preamble, confesses his longing for her and craves phone sex. As Carrie mimics his touches, Aidan's libido takes flight, but an untimely car horn and an unwelcome stare from her feline companion Shoe completely disillusion Carrie. While Aidan concludes his business, Carrie feigns climax. Subsequently, she is consumed by guilt for deceiving him. "Our sex life is the most honest aspect of our relationship," she confesses to Miranda and Charlotte. But hold your breath! It escalates further!
Desiring to atone for her apparent indiscretion, Carrie summarily ejects Shoe from her chamber and dials up her lover, intent on confessing and seeking a fresh start. However, as she initiates the conversation and prompts Aidan to reciprocate her sentiments, he reveals that he's currently entangled in bed with Wyatt, who's had an exceptionally trying day, rendering him unable to engage in her desired reenactment at that moment. Isn't it ironic that he can violate their unspoken rules and dial her up for phone sex whenever the fancy strikes him, yet he can't lend her a moment of his time in her hour of need? Carrie's subsequent humiliation, choosing to hang up rather than confronting the reality of her relationship, serves as a desperate plea for rescue. The incessant blaring of Carrie's newfangled alarm system at her posh Gramercy Park abode stands as a resounding metaphor, one we can only fervently hope she'll heed. It's patently obvious that she's feigning far more than just orgasms. Hardly anyone in Carrie's circle appears content, with the exception of Harry—undeniably the series' MVP—who finds unparalleled joy in watching Herbert perform with his college a cappella group at a fundraiser for his comptroller campaign. Seldom does one witness such pure bliss. (Hallelujah that "And Just Like That..." has finally unleashed Christopher Jackson's vocal prowess!)
Seema, who, at the conclusion of season two, joined forces with Carrie in vowing to await the return of her beau, couldn't last even five months before terminating her relationship with the scarf-like Ravi. And quite justifiably so. This gentleman, who seemed far less dashing than in the previous season, is completely engrossed in his film shoot in Egypt. He consistently misses their scheduled FaceTime phone-sex sessions, instead tasking his assistant to inform her of his unavailability. (Couldn't this assistant have simply called or texted, thus sparing Seema the embarrassment of being caught in her lingerie?) She nearly incinerates her apartment after dozing off with a lit cigarette while awaiting his call. But what truly seals the fate of their relationship is his transformation of her heartfelt plea for a visit into a work trip, dragging her around New York City with his team as they scout locations. Thank heavens Seema puts an end to this fiasco before the sun sets. She's a woman who recognizes her own worth, and she deserves far more than serving as an unglamorous companion to someone who prioritizes Cool Ranch potato chips and Sprite over her. Her wardrobe of opulent silk matching sets demands better.
Miranda, too, remains love's perpetual loser, albeit her saga provides ample material for mirth and cringe-worthy moments (in the best way possible). Allow me to state bluntly that Miranda deflowers a nun named Mary (Rosie O'Donnell, in a delightfully unexpected casting choice) during her journey of self-discovery and exploration of New York City. Indeed, there are numerous jokes regarding the Virgin Mary and the notion of holy ghosting. However, the finest joke of all is Carrie's nonchalant conclusion that she's less concerned about Miranda deflowering a virgin nun than about her sleeping with a tourist. She chuckles every time Miranda receives a new text from Mary, inviting her to meet at iconic New York City landmarks such as Tavern on the Green, the Central Park Carousel, and outside the M&M Store in Times Square. Mary is but a wide-eyed deer, venturing into the world for the very first time, making the most cliché tourist choices, as we all occasionally do. While Carrie may giggle, Miranda cannot bring herself to dismiss this nun. Perhaps it's primarily due to her empathy for a woman seeking her identity, but I suspect part of it stems from Mary's description of their lovemaking as "electric." These women are narcissists, to be sure, but in the most endearing way possible.
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Amidst the bustling Times Square, Miranda Hobbes finds herself in an unexpected predicament, earnestly pleading with a nun not to forsake her faith on her account. What a remarkable era to witness such scenes! Fortunately, her entreaties are not in vain; Mary had never contemplated deserting the convent. She was merely exploring this unfamiliar facet of her personality. And to Miranda's astonishment, this newfound aspect of Mary is so deeply grateful for broadening her horizons that she proceeds to enchant her with a soulful rendition from her Broadway debut—she belts out "For Good" from the musical Wicked, right there in the heart of Times Square, beside a performer clad in an enormous gorilla costume. Cynthia Nixon's reaction to one of the most cringe-worthy serenades ever televised is nothing short of perfect; I couldn't help but chuckle long after Miranda and her nun-love interest parted ways.
And so, season three of "And Just Like That..." presses onward, with Miranda vowing never to set foot in Times Square again, Seema re-entering the dating scene, and Carrie clinging to her delusional hopes for her "relationship." The only indication that Carrie might finally be coming to terms with the challenges of staying with Aidan, should they continue as they are, is her decision to open her laptop and write once more. Inspired after a brief hiatus, she types: "The woman pondered what she had gotten herself into." Carrie, we feel your pain. Same here.
