Picture this scenario: Carrie Bradshaw, needing some technological intimacy, is spooning with her laptop after a rendezvous with Mr. Big who failed to cuddle. Slipping off her stilettos, she gazes forlornly at the New York City skyline and ponders the state of the nation. She makes eyes with the computer screen, exhales a halo of smoke and gets all naughtily cliche on the keys. "Does size really matter?" she types, "Or is it about what buttons you push."
It is the burning question on the city's mind, along with what shade of black is in for fall. (Dark noire). She muses over the perplexing quandary of having her editors censor her (like back in college) but decides to continue with another one liner that will surely make everyone choke on their bottled Fuji waters and baby carrots. "How big is too big?"
A brazen topic to hurdle, yet Carrie knows how the city respects her vintage schizophrenic ways. Furthermore she is the expert on this topic ... a topic so "all the rage" that it had even become the norm to discuss at Tapas bars. At last she is ready to get down and dirty and thrash out the essential matter: Cell Phone Shrinkage in Society.
You see, this past weekend Carrie had felt the over-adequacy of her own cell phone. It was homecoming at her alma-mater. (Just pretend, will you?) Autumn. She remembers it well. The leaves were crisp as the skin of fried chicken and morale of opposing Troy State was going down like the bourbon in the throats of the flask smugglers.Everyone was swaying to a little Wahoo-Wa on a hill of corduroy when Carrie understood the mortification of the harrowing secret that laden down her Prada bag.
The whistle blew. A pass and a couple of beefcakes were all over each other on the field. Carrie heard her bling bling. No, actually she had set the ring to the theme song of "Night Rider," to signal that it was Mr. Big (an obvious fictionalized scenario, because remember there's no reception at the game.)
Touchdown! She shook her pompoms and whispered sweet nothings into her massive Panasonic, circa 2001. A hushed silenced came over the nearby face-painters and they began to heckle her.
"Hello, Zach Morris." They prodded, "Zach Morris here."
Oh sure Carrie's cell phone was just a cut under those car-phone oldies that attached to a pleather suitcase, but wasn't bigger better?
She took a dip of her Big League chew to soothe the humiliation that she'd been compared to the Bayside High boy bimbo. If only she could click together her paten leather Jimmy shoes and be back in the city, curling up with Mr. Big, spending the evening watching The Big Lebowski, followed by The Big Chill.
Yet deny as she might of her own cell phone trend failure, the truth was all around her. Not only had the school been featured in Playboy as having great looking students, but most of the guys had even brought little, sleek models to the game. No one needed a football date like in days of yore, because having foreign models with names like Nokia, Verizon and Hitachi, was much more exciting. Their tops flipped up and down with the flexibility of Mary Lou Retton and the easiness of Tara Reid. Guys never had to buy them a drink. But best of all was the fact that they fit in a pocket and could wake you up with their good vibrations.
Perhaps it was a better small, small world after all, Carrie thought, taking a bite of a Little Debbie. After all, the new twenty dollar bills with the enlarged head of President Jackson had been a bust, since they were recently counterfeited in Massachusetts. The huge Jeep Liberty appeared bloated. And speaking of the effects of steroids, Arnold Schwarzenegger was the Governor of California after his demonstration of authority with the little tikes on Kindergarten Cop.
Though the truth was as hard to swallow as the Aristocrat Vodka at the tailgate earlier, Carrie did. Despite the fact that Red Sox manager Grady Little was out (of a job) for keeping Pedro in the 8th inning of game, she accepted the fact that "little" things were in. Little cell phones, Little John's, Tiny Dancer, Stuart Little, the president's vocabulary.
Liberating herself from the burden of her massive circa-2001 Panasonic phone, Carrie tossed it into the hill of corduroy and freely swayed to a little Wahoo-Wa. With a convictional "yes" to "Does size really matter," she only had three more questions. Where'd I put my phone? Why can't we play a more exciting team for homecoming? And "Who's packing some little airplane bottles?"
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