There is one fictional character I get compared to quite frequently, usually on account of my blond curls and my sexual jokes: Carrie Bradshaw. I would prefer not to inherit her luck with men or her credit card statements, but I admit I encourage the comparison. She’s on my shortlist of Halloween costumes, and my Spring Fling BORG was, famously, named Carrie BORGshaw.
Beyond the hair, we have one more thing in common—and I hope you won’t assume it’s following a man to Paris. It’s much more obvious. You’re reading it right now. Carrie is a columnist, and so am I.
So it’s only fair that I borrow her method. Laptop open, question ready, Manhattan apartment replaced by a Pierson double. This week, I couldn’t help but wonder: Is Yale just Sex and the City with worse shoes?
I’d argue yes. I’ve found myself in more than one conversation here about who’s who. Who’s the Carrie, who’s the Charlotte, who’s the Samantha, and who has to be the Miranda. It’s the OG personality quiz, and if you want to see all four women out at once, Halloween is THE time.
There’s Charlotte, who planned a couples costume in September. Joker and Harley Quinn, Mario and Peach, Fred and Daphne—any pair that makes the relationship visible from across the room. She says it’s just for the pictures, but she wishes he were more enthusiastic about being Fred. He needs the ascot. She has sent him the link. She is trying very hard not to interpret his failure to order it as information about their future.
Charlotte wants the night to match the version in her head. It’s easy to consider her silly until something you’ve been looking forward to for weeks strays from the plan, and you try to pretend you didn’t mind.
Then there’s Miranda, who “doesn’t do Halloween.” She’s convinced she bombed her midterm, and the only thing that will make her feel better is going to Bass and “locking in” while everyone is at the Halloween Show. She has three assignments due and a HireVue she hasn’t recorded. Fun is not a good enough reason to leave her desk.
Eventually, she decides the party can count as an anthropological experience. She puts on cat ears and spends the next hour analyzing the sexism of Halloween. Why is every woman’s costume a sexy version of something, while the men’s version comes with pants?
Samantha requires considerably less justification to attend the party. Sexy Cop, Sexy Nurse, Sexy Witch. She has chosen something she wants to wear and would appreciate it if everyone stopped asking whether she’ll be cold. She will be. She has considered this.
I admire the apparent simplicity of her evening. If she wants to talk to someone, she walks over. She doesn’t need a mutual friend to arrange an introduction that looks accidental. She doesn’t spend the next morning insisting that she wasn’t even that interested.
Of course, buying the outfit is easier than acquiring the disposition. You can leave your suite dressed as Samantha and spend the entire walk over asking whether it’s too much. You can tell yourself you’re wearing something entirely for your own enjoyment and still be annoyed when one particular person fails to notice. I don’t think either cancels out the confidence. It does complicate the casting.
And then there’s Carrie, who changes three times before the pregame, asks everyone which version looks better, and then ignores the answer. She wants the outfit to say something about her. Ideally, something she’d be too embarrassed to say out loud.
Her friends want to go to drinks first, maybe stop somewhere on the way. Carrie needs to hurry, because BIG IS GOING TO LEO! And so she drags all three of them there.
Carrie turns a brief conversation in her head into a column before the other person has finished speaking. Was that flirting? Did he recognize the costume? She’s at the party, technically. Mostly, she’s in her head. Occupational hazard.
Four women, four very different Halloweens, all saved for the debrief at their standing brunch the next morning.
At that table, everyone already has a role. Step outside the one they’ve given you, and you hear about it. “Are you okay?” “That’s so out of character lol.” “Wow, that’s so bold for her.” “She’s lost her spark.”
The harshest ones come from your own head, and bring guilt. If I’m independent, why do I care whether he texts? If I’m social, why do I need time alone, a break even from the friends I love most? If I’m sensible, how the fuck did I spend $200 on Ubers this month? If I’m grateful, why am I not loving Yale right now? If I’m the fun one, why do I want to stay in tonight?
Somewhere along the way, you zip yourself into a costume and forget it comes off.
But I don’t see how anyone could ever pick just one costume. You can arrive determined to talk to someone (Samantha), find yourself hoping they’ll come over first (Charlotte), decide the whole thing is stupid when they don’t (Miranda), and explain to your suitemates afterward why the interaction was actually very interesting (Carrie). All four women, one outfit.
I’d like to wear something outrageous without promising to be outrageous all evening. To make the first move and still be nervous about it. To not owe an explanation to anyone, least of all myself. And simply exist—without overthinking, overcomplicating, and categorizing.
Anyway, as much as you try to “stay in your lane,” life happens. Charlotte got divorced. Miranda moved to Brooklyn. Samantha fell in love. Carrie came home from Paris. The women we’re using as archetypes spent six seasons complicating them.
So pick a costume. But know that you can take it off at the end of the night, or the start, or the middle.