PNW Bradshaw

My life seriously resembles a Portlandia meets Sex in the City tv series. For real. Perhaps most women’s lives do mimic the 4-women ensemble, which is why the series was so damn popular for 6 years. Rather than expensive Gucci shoes and meet ups in trendy breakfast cafes sipping mimosas, my group of girls and I meet up in vegan hipster bars and gripe about our relationships in North Face fleeces and running pants while sipping local brews. Instead of clubs and fancy restaurants, we meet up for runs and hiking excursions. NYC hot dogs are replaces with a $5 meal from a food cart. Taxies become bikes. Getaways to the Hamptons is a ski excursion to Bend. It’s completely different and yet the content is all the same. It’s the Pacific Northwest version, except perhaps a bit more ironic.

Like the show, we talk about failed relationships, frustrations in current relationships – we laugh over shit like tampons and freak out pregnancy scares. We assure each other that we’re the normal ones… that it’s the guys that don’t have their shit together and we dream of the day when perhaps we might all find contentment in our respective relationships. It’s therapeutic and something (in my experience) guys just don’t do. They don’t talk about their emotions, their ups and downs, their insecurities and never do they ever talk about their relationships. It’s all good. No use complaining about it, right? Men and women are two entirely different creatures of habit. No wonder we rarely speak the same language. Yet when you can sit down with your fellow girls and laugh about things you take too seriously, then it puts everything back into perspective.

Near the end of our conversation, we sadly laugh at the fact that between now and later in our older years, a lot will happen in our lives with relationships, but in the end, we’re likely to end up in the same situation: sitting with a close group of women at a table discussing relationship of younger generations in chairs that move while sipping prune juice and eating applesauce in slippers.

Who doesn't want to be Betty White?

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