Life After SATC

In the span of nine months, I've been to three bridal showers (one of them was mine), three weddings (ditto), two baby showers (and a gift and regrets went in my place to a third), and two housewarmings.
Out of the 13 women who came to my bridal shower last summer, six are (or were) married, three are mothers, and three are in serious relationships. Four of my closest friends from NYC are still unmarried (though half of them are in semi-serious relationships). My two newly married friends are now pregnant or trying. Three of my colleagues are expecting babies in the next four months. My sister is a new mother. And our mother is already asking me when she can expect her next grandchild.
Here I am, suspended somewhere between matrimony and motherhood, clinging to what's left of My Fabulous Life. I realized one night, as I lay on the couch with the flu, watching Sex and the City reruns (for the 2nd time in one week), that the reason my friends and I were so upset when the series ended is that that chapter in our lives was coming to a close as well--and without the happy endings for some. Most of us are nearly as old as the characters on SATC were in the sixth (and last) season. As long as they were single and satisfied, so were we. But once they'd settled down, it seemed the story was over. Every one of the Fabulous Four from SATC met her man and got married (or got monogomous, at least).
Miranda moved to a brownstone in Park Slope (Brooklyn), complete with handy husband, toddler son, big dog, a nanny only a lawyer (or someone in a similarly well-paying occupation) could afford, and a mother-in-law suffering from dementia. Lord. Charlotte stays in the Park Avenue penthouse her new divorce lawyer husband helped her win from her ex-husband, along with a pedigree dog named Elizabeth Taylor and (we can assume) an adopted Chinese baby. Samantha decides to share her life and her loft apartment in the Meatpacking district with her much younger, burgeoning movie-star boyfriend. And Carrie, the star of the show, moves back to Manhattan after being rescued from Paris (Paris!) by her "Big" knight in shining Armani. The End.
But life goes on. And post SATC, it's not so glamourous. As my newly married and now very pregnant friend reminded us during a recent night out (and by "night out"--I mean dinner in Brooklyn at 6:30, home by 9). As she told us, she's gassy, she's bloated, she's still a bit crabby (having given up smoking/drinking/caffeine the day she learned she was pregnant), she's gaining weight so fast these days that she ripped the waistband in her brand-new $100 maternity pants after 2 wears.
"I just thought pregnancy would be more, well--glamourous," she admitted to my two single girlfriends and me. "Glamourous??" we asked her, incredulous. "Where in the hell would you get that idea?" I asked "From seeing Demi on the cover of Vanity Fair?"
"Well, yeah--sort of," she said.
The three of us looked at each other. "That cover was definitely air brushed," said one. And we laughed.
But the more I thought about it, the more sympathetic I became. If you look at how pregnancy is portrayed in the media, it either 1) isn't, or 2) revolves around glammed up images of celebrities during pregnancy (A 7-months pregnant Claudia Schiffer tells the Mirror: "I'm eating whatever I want at the moment.. Isn't is marvelous?") or after (see this month's Maric Claire: "Best Post-Baby Body!").
I don't care how rich and famous you are. Unless you're paying someone to carry that baby for you for nine months, pregnancy is not glam. Having been through four pregnancies (albeit vicariously), I can say that anyone that tells you she "loves being pregnant" is lying--or heavily medicated. And definitely doesn't hold down a full-time job.
This is not to say that pregnancy isn't wonderful--or, at least, the end result is. But it does a disservice to women--and to their husbands--to portray pregnancy as nine months of post-coital bliss.