Whether you're out at the bar in the tony section of town or reading the newspaper's "lifestyles" section, you'll observe an interesting phenomena: Women in their late 20s and 30s sipping martinis with one hand and cradling Coach purses with another.
I'm not sure if they've adopted every cliche from "Sex and the City" or they're just truly enraptured by a life of aesthetics which, ironically, they hope to be rescued from by a husband-to-be-named-later. There's something vaguely pathetic about grown-up women who are, essentially, pretending to be grown ups.
There's also something familiar about it, and I couldn't put my finger on it until just the other day. I realized what these women who are trading on their limited looks and sophistication really are: The cosmopolitan modern equivalent of the faded southern belle.
Instead of glorifying these ladies with overrated HBO sitcoms, we need a modernized version of A Streetcar Named Desire to bring them down a few pegs.
