Before I turned seventeen, my mother’s favorite television show, Sex and the City, was strictly off limits. Obviously, I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to watch it, and since I’ve started I can’t get enough.

Sex and the City stands at once for everything I love and everything I hate. I love the romantic and slightly frivolous premise that four women can stay friends through everything. I love the idea of female empowerment through careers and independence, that though they worry about men, they are still interesting and strong women on their own.

I hate the heteronormativity, the constant need for stuff, the fact that it completely misrepresents New York and espouses a lifestyle I will never understand. (Why does Carrie need so many pairs of shoes?)

But I suppose that’s why it’s a television show. Because it is a complete escape from reality, it provides a feeling of comfort. I always know that Carrie will fall into Big’s arms again. The show is also more about friendship than sex—while I’m more of a Carrie than a Miranda, I can identify with all of them, and their relationships are so real, sometimes painfully so. I find myself laughing, crying, and even taking their relationship advice.

The show is far from perfect, and at its core, deeply flawed and anti-feminist, but it’s an escape, and one that is much better written than most of television. So pour me a Cosmopolitan and hand me my remote—I can put away my values for half an hour.