Over Like That

What the fuck was that, quiet literal, shit? Like, really and truly, that was shitty. If you’re like me, you have continued to struggle through successive seasons of “And Just Like That…” because of your Cosmopolitan-colored nostalgia about “Sex and the City.” While I think, for the most part, the reboot’s biggest flaws come from trying too hard to atone for its past sins – and also not exactly knowing what to do with middle-aged women with middle-aged problems – the finale felt a little bit like it hated middle-aged women altogether. Or, perhaps, it hated its middle-aged female viewers – though truly its female viewers of all ages.

How else can you explain subjecting us to literal turd. Poop. Fecal matter. Shit, actual shit, was one of the final indelible images of a show its largely female fanbase has invested the last 27 years of their lives in. And we had to listen to two – TWO – different men pee. Maybe that was for the gay men, but still. What?

And don’t get me started on Miranda’s final scenes involving her literally on her knees cleaning up someone else’s shit. Like, what did Cynthia Nixon do to Michael Patrick King to deserve Miranda’s crown as No. 1 Cringe Queen through the entire series run?

As much as I grouse about “And Just Like That…” it remains one of the few major TV series with a main cast composed entirely of 50-and-60-something female stars. And that matters. I still like these characters, and I will always love the sisterhood they created. Their friendship remains the draw, and I’m glad at least they all still have each other. No, we won’t be mentioning Samantha. We already had real shit to deal with. We’ve suffered enough.

p.s. Also don’t get me started with the giant doll.

p.p.s. Honestly, I think my favorite part was hearing the O.G. “Sex and the City” theme play through the final credits. Cosmos up, ladies, for the memories.