First Person

One of the first things I did when I arrived in my hometown of Los Angeles for the summer was to rush with my friend Lori to see “Sex and the City” on opening night. We weren’t the only ones. The movie was sold out all over Los Angeles, but as committed fans, we made the trek to Manhattan — Manhattan Beach, that is — despite the current gas prices, to see the only 10:30 p.m. Friday showing available within a 30-mile radius. The line, filled mostly with women, went around the block. I had gotten all dolled up in shiny golden (knock-off?) Kenneth Cole heels, brown leggings and a golden wrap — just to sit in a movie theater. We stood for a half-hour in the cold beach weather — me in my heels and Lori wrapped in a blanket she found in her car — but we didn’t mind. The mood was cheerful and expectant. It wasn’t the sluggish anticipation we experienced in line for the new “Indiana Jones” movie along with fathers and sons. We passed the time examining everyone’s shoes and chatting with a 50-year-old mother of five kids who’d brought her 18-year-old daughter to see the movie. Already, during the previews for romantic comedies, we were all cheering and jeering. We weren’t strangers — but sisters — all connected by our familiarity and sympathy for our mutual best friends: Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha. READ