In the past six months, I’ve encountered a rather significant number of people who

apparently share the same absurd aspiration: “I just want to be Carrie Bradshaw.” This so-called dream is flawed for a number of reasons. First and foremost, she doesn’t actually exist. It’s kind of like saying you want to be Cinderella but somehow more socially acceptable. Secondly, the show is not even produced anymore so the fascination with Carrie’s character seems a bit delayed.

But the most ridiculous part of this fantasy is just how wildly far-fetched this chick’s life is, even if she were to exist. Carrie is a journalist — not an entrepreneur. Not a lawyer. Not even a public relations consultant. And if you’ve turned on the news in the past eight years or so, I’m sure you know the state of the newspaper industry.

After studying journalism for over three years, it’s been made pretty clear that I’m going to be poor. Not just the kind of poor that doesn’t allow you to frolic down 5th Ave. in Manolo Blahniks, but the kind that doesn’t allow you to frolic anywhere other than your parent’s basement. And probably wearing slippers. Yeah, that kind of poor.

Bradshaw romanticizes a field that seems to be anything but glamorous, especially when it comes to paychecks. For the small amount of freelancing I’ve done, I’ve been able to “survive:” buy groceries, see a movie and go to Starbucks — if I’m lucky. If I were living (aka starving) in Manhattan, I probably would have been able to do one of those three things. So you can forget buying a round of cosmos at $20 a pop.

Then again, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be Carrie, too, but with a smaller

nose. Let’s be honest — who wouldn’t? Writing for Vogue, one of the most prestigious (and pretentious) magazines in the world, clutching handbags that cost the equivalent to my student loans, all while falling in and out of love and designer dresses. Tough life.

But the real issue here isn’t just lusting after Carrie’s lavish lifestyle. What really

grinds my gears is how Carrie and “Sex & the City” as a whole, creates a false hope for 20-something women like myself wishing to live and write in New York. So while I sit here and bash all of the unrealistic things Ms. Bradshaw embodies, I can’t help but secretly hope to live a life like hers, too.

Foolish, right? I know. It pains me to openly admit that even I, who see the devastatingly clear flaws in this fictitious show, would be that naïve. Part of me wants to curse at my TV when I see Sarah Jessica Parker’s face plastered across the screen, gabbing about her latest assignment for Vogue as she shoves her face with a $50 meal. Why? Because the chances of that happening to me or the 9 million other idiots that believe this crap is slim to none. But the other part of me can’t help but dream, just a little.

But hear me out. I, like my fellow journalism students, pay 50 grand a year to sit in

a classroom and listen to professors preach about how print media is dead. Is that inspirational? No. Is being able to turn on E! and watch a pretty blond tackle the writing world inspirational? Yes. Improbable. But still inspirational.

So until I move to New York, struggle to work, eat canned tuna for dinner and shop

at Goodwill, Ms. Bradshaw serves as both the Chanel bag in a store of knock-offs, and my reality check that I’ll probably never be able to afford it.