ALMOST CARRIE ~ Aunt Sue

There is a reason why I live in an apartment in New York, a reason that goes far beyond the reaches of Sex and the City, a reason so old and so dear it is now imprinted in my DNA.

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My father’s siblings, four in all, are a special lot, wholly different than my father himself, who liked to wear cut-offs and t-shirts from yard sales and who felt most at home in a tent. A makeshift toilet in the woods gave him a special sort of thrill, and haircuts and name brands made him sweat. My mother, an artist, had a similar vibe—paint splattered everything and no particular attachment to matching socks or towels or cutlery. My father’s siblings were the opposite: Uncle Mike, dapper, a fresh collar poking out from every sweater and never ever in jeans; Aunt Amy, who had a jewelry box in her bedroom that was taller than me, each necklace on its very own hook and every earring next to its mate; Aunt Pam who I saw putting lotion on her legs after getting out of the shower when I was five, a gesture so grand I’ve mimicked it ever since; and dear Aunt Sue, who had a closet full of dresses and matching belts and who lived—when I was still very young and she was still single—in her own apartment.

The notion that someone I knew lived in an apartment was foreign to the point of make-believe. My own house was a hulking old beast, farm-style, with peeling paint and ripped screen doors and a tree fort my father built by the clothesline. I had never seen an apartment in person, but the news of Aunt Sue’s conjured all sorts of visions: plush carpeting and umbrella stands and hand soap in the shape of seashells. It was, at the age of four, the life I wanted for myself. I was preoccupied with all things “fancy,” some psychological concoction of repeated Madeleine stories and early rebellion and—I suppose—some innate part of my own budding personality. And so my parents, sensing my longing and knowing their own limitations, planned an outing for me that changed the trajectory of my entire life: a weekend with Aunt Sue at her place.

The apartment was exactly as I expected—a bed made with sheets like a hotel, and a kitchen with an island that led right into the parlor. My Aunt Pam stopped by, and it was us three girls, lounging on the couch, leaning against the counter, chit-chatting like ladies do. Aunt Sue took me to get my hair cut that weekend—my first time in a salon—and I was terribly frightened, sure that I was crossing some threshold that would lead me so far beyond my parents’ world that I’d never again return. And later, there were cupcakes from a real bakery with frosting sculpted in the shape of cookie monster. (My mother panicked the following day, my poop inexplicably blue.)

My Aunt Sue’s apartment wasn’t in New York, it was in some suburban Jersey town, but that hardly mattered. The weekend wedged itself in my psyche in way I’ve never been able to shake; the glamour of my Aunt Sue seeping into every decision I’ve made.

Emily Sproch is a writer and a Sex and the City tour guide. Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”