In Season Five, when Stanford first tells Carrie about his new boyfriend, the eminently delectable Marcus, he asks her not to judge. A grinning Carrie responds with a "I don't judge!" line, which Stanford promptly shushes with a candid "O, honey, yes we do. Some people do Arts & Crafts; we judge."
Fair enough. We do.
And while I always tell myself I hate being judged, I've sort of realized that I'm as guilty as the very next person. Maybe not meaning it in any sort of vicious way, aaa, but then, the judgment does happen, all the same.
- Like when I meet the cute guy online, but when he speaks on the phone, he can barely construct a sentence in English together.
- Like when, after a long witty conversation, I realize the guy is 18 years old, and I feel like a cradle robber.
- Like when the guy seems cute and smart and sweet, and I liked walking on the beach with him in the darkness, linking hands, but then he suggests a quick blowjob on the terrace of a friend's home.
In another episode of SATC, I think it was Season Two, Carrie walks in on Samantha giving the Fed-Ex guy a blowjob in her office. Carrie balks, then stumbles out of the office in shock, and despite herself, she does judge her closest friend. As she tells Samantha, she wouldn't ever find herself in a situation like that - and that's what Sam takes offence at. I completely identified with Sam - the idea that my friends or lovers would deign to judge me was quite reprehensible. And I'm lucky, that despite all the bullshit spouted by them often enough, they actually don't.
Some months ago, a friend of mine had a rough-and-tumble session with this guy he's known for some time, and apart from the all-night ball-busting sex, one of the highlights was crack. And when he told me, I was actually quite shocked. I raved and ranted, and told him it was a horrid thing to do, and he agreed, saying he'd just gotten carried away with it, and would never do it again. Cocaine, I thundered, was evil and unnecessary in good sex.
And then, a couple of weeks back, I met this same guy in bed, and like a dolt, high on wine and attention, I snorted some myself. Actually, snorted quite a lot. Five lines. And I'd never done coke before. It felt fun. It didn't really feel like I was doing anything narcotic. There was no ear-splitting high, no happy pleasant cocoon. Just... staying up late, talking and listening to music, and fooling around. And then, I realized how badly the coke had hit me, when I couldn't get a hard-on. Yikes.
O, and I couldn't sleep, either. We stayed up all night, that day, and I left for work directly from his place in the morning after a shower, and by 1 p.m. the backache, headache, limbache had surfaced. *groan* A confessory (is that a word?) phone call to said friend who'd been in my shoes with the charming cocaine guy earlier, and he advised to get home as fast as possible and just sleep. But at the end of that call, I was struck by how remarkably his advice was without the harsh judgment that I had bestowed upon him, all those months ago. Instead, the judgment part came from me, when I realized that the only reason I hadn't snorted more than 5 lines was because I realized it was affecting my erection capability. I stopped crack cuz of my cock.
*ouch*
Judgment does fall hard.
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