Before I ever even saw it, I always scoffed at Sex and the City. Then one day, while living in a house with a bunch of other women, I came home to find my roommates gathered around the TV mid-marathon viewing—one of their coworkers had lent her a bootleg VHS of the first season. I made fun of them, but then they passed me the joint, I sat down, and I swear I sat there transfixed and watched them all. When the tape ran out we went to the video store to get more. When there were no more we re-watched old ones. We even—and I can’t believe I’m admitting this—discussed which of us were most like which characters (I’m Carrie, obviously). This kind of thing could only have happened in an environment where everyone’s periods are synced up and girlish obsessions sweep people over en masse (also see: Eminem). It was a perfect storm. But that was, like, four years ago.

And now, there’s this:

Will I see it? No doubt. The only question will be whether I hate it or myself more. Either way, it’s all about the clothes.