"Guys have the Super Bowl, we have this,"

I've watched this show from day one, and on day one I thought that this show was irreverent and only slightly annoying. Six seasons later, I have found myself still watching a show that has transformed into the MOST annoying 30 minutes on television. Of course, as dreadfully annoying as the show is, it doesn't compare to the legions of women who follow this show with the religious fervor of Jim Baaker. When the show ends on Sunday, I might throw a party, not to mourn the loss of Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte in my life, but to celebrate the end of the effect this damned show has had. I no longer have to read or see trite interviews with thirtysomething women who believe themselves to be just like one of these characters and swear to have three other friends who neatly match the other three women on the show. Personally, being like Carrie Bradshaw would not be something I would want to scream from the mountaintops, but that might just be me. I no longer have to make women cosmopolitans by the pitcher. It will no longer be blasphemy to look at a shoe on a woman's foot and not be able to tell if its a Manolo Blahnik or a Jimmy Choo. And quite possibly people will stop regarding Patricia Field as a fashion goddess.

Call me a traitor to my gender. Call me a cynic. Call me a tomboy. But give me the Super Bowl over this anyday. Especially if it involves a great game, Janet Jackson's nipple, and a man dressed as a referee who strips naked and does a jig near the kicker.

(this next question, you should hear me asking aloud as you imagine me sitting on my bed typing on my i-mac laptop)

As we speed along this endless road to the destination called Sunday Night at 10pm, I can't help but whine, 'Are we there yet?'