Sex and the City and Bumble BFF
I’m working on a longer piece about how a woman's bedroom is a curated exhibit on herself and how it fluctuates through maturation and relocation. I chime in here with a brief interlude on my experience with Bumble BFF. Also- I made a comment section!!
The resurgence of Sex and the City in the cultural zeitgeist, a common occurrence when the female population is in need of distraction from the state of the world, has me reflecting on the concept of the female friend group. Episodically, Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha, all insufferable in their own right, join together for a diegetic weekly brunch where they theorize and philosophize on the state of their social lives. To compare your Real Life to a TV Show is adolescent, rookie behavior, but there is a unique case to be made for this particular series. One of the first scripts to seriously consider the intimate lives of modern women, it is gospel for many of us and our mothers. Even the heightened reality of SATC has become another way for us cosmopolitan women to relate to each other, remarking over the dialogue that Carrie’s credit card bill would be astronomical and no one really runs into people that often in Manhattan. The SATC scripts are biblical text and they preach that women should have a colorful, reliable, fashionable, impenetrable, group of girls.
This is not to say my social life is sepia toned. In my life, I have belonged to a group of four girls that told each other everything. It was remarkable, and it worked really well from the ages of 13-18. I am now 24 and in a loving relationship, living in a corner of Manhattan that requires a ride on an unfavorable Subway line, and working a full time job. Friendship in this period of life, in the age of work, pet ownership, and nights ending before 1 AM, is foreign and inconvenient. I text the relevant updates and unite with those close to me on an ad hoc basis, but I have anecdotes that are gasping for airtime at a girly brunch. I long for a chorus of lamentation for the fact the only audition in my inbox is for a graphic rape scene, and a finger on the pulse of where to source cheap imported perfume oils.
Enter: Bumble BFF. My history with apps of this type is spotty. Tinder was a wonderful method for male attention for a few months at twenty one, but I am proud that my relationship was forged in the wild. Within my personal philosophy, dating apps are allied with Big Algorithm. In fact, I feel romantic love is arguably antithetical to a pocket-sized-swipe-game. So why do I delude myself into believing this would be any different for friendships?
I uploaded 5 images of myself and one of my cat. From the prompts, I select that I am “learning more about my culture”, “going to therapy”, and “enjoying each day as it comes.” I write in my bio that I find the app clinical in nature and I am seeking dear friendship. Then, in pursuit of that dear friendship, I swipe left or right on the faces of unknowing women. I think of each of them selecting this main photo: how long did it take to choose which selfie to use? What type of girl do you hope resonates with it? I know my answers, but not theirs. They’re not my friends yet.
After a 10 minute swipe sesh, I noticed I have received likes. 4 in total, and all blurred. These girls who thought we would make good friends are hidden behind a 14.99 monthly paywall. I close the app.
So then I think to myself: had my gods Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha found themselves as young women in NYC and made themselves a profile on Bumble BFF, would they have swiped on eachother? Would any of them have made it to the match stage and subsequently initiated a conversation? Who would take the initiative to move the conversation offline and to a coffee date? If only a pair of them had met, would the other two eventually make it into the fold?
In my fan fictionalized version, Carrie’s page never goes live because she cannot choose her six photos, growing increasingly frustrated by curating her projected image that she quits while she’s ahed. Charlotte’s inbox would become flooded by friendship requests, and she would cherry pick the most suitable candidates. Miranda would probably have a storyline about actually hanging out with someone with the opposite party under the impression they’re on a real date, because women who have short hair are gay, duh! I do think Samantha might have some success, though, that enterprising minx. But I am not sure they would meet each other.
