Half an hour into my interview with Candace Bushnell it hits me that I’ve put myself where she’s supposed to be. There I sit, in her Upper East Side apartment, smack-dab in the middle of her sofa, upholstered in hot-pink velvet, and flanked by her two standard poodles, Pepper and Prancer, as she did on the cover of her latest book, Is There Still Sex in the City?, a sequel of sorts to 1996’s Sex and the City. True, I’m not wearing an electric-purple tulle minidress with a fitted bodice and a skirt like a cheerleader’s pom-pom, a costume that requires nerve, which she has, and a fashion model’s figure, which she also has, no mean feat at 60. Nor would I so much as attempt the perilously high heels with the crisscrossing straps. (If the dress suggests that the answer to the query posed in the title is Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, the shoes confirm that suggestion.) Nevertheless, uncanny.
I’m about to interrupt her, alert her to the act of pop-cultural blasphemy I’ve inadvertently committed, offer an abject apology, and insist we switch seats, when I come to my senses, bite my tongue, because: (A) she’s in the middle of a story, which means she’s on a roll; (B) there’s no seat for me to switch to (ever since she read somewhere that standing is better for your health than sitting, she’s become virulently anti-chair—she even writes standing); (C) her place in the pop-culture canon is assured, and she is, consequently, impervious to acts of pop-cultural blasphemy, regardless of how egregious; and (D) she seems to take herself very seriously without taking herself at all seriously, and I therefore cannot imagine her giving a shit where I park my body.