Carrie Bradshaw Writes Her Column While Trapped in a Corn Maze

It was every woman’s worst nightmare. There I was—thirty-five, single, and trapped in a corn maze.

As I wound my way along paths of corn, I thought about the contorted pathways that defined my life. I couldn’t help but wonder: Is there ever one straight shot at a relationship? Or are we all just trapped in the confusing, twisted, wonderful corn maze that is love?

The man in the ticket booth told me that it usually takes twenty minutes to finish the maze. I laughed and told him that I needed only ten. But suddenly it was forty minutes later and I found myself still hopelessly stuck. It wasn’t the first time that I had lied to a man about how long it would take me to finish. I smiled as I trod my Manolos toward yet another dead end.

The past has a tendency to pull you back, keeping you from your future, no matter how hard you try to move on. I thought about my own past, about forty-five minutes ago, when I wasn’t stuck in the maze. I was as naïve then as I was in my twenties. Women in their thirties have to be more realistic about love. Women in their thirties also have to be more realistic about their ability to finish a corn maze.

I stopped to gaze at four corncobs bunched together, and was reminded of my girlfriends. Maybe you don’t need one strong farmer to sweep you off your feet. Maybe your most important relationships are the ones with the female corncobs who have been beside you all along. I wished my girlfriends were with me now—it was getting dark. I couldn’t help but wonder: Do they just leave you in the maze if you don’t finish?

I used to think that life was about fabulous parties, lingering glances, and speeding down Fifth Avenue in a taxi. Now I realized what life was truly about—getting out of the maze. The literal corn maze that I had been inside for upward of an hour. Manhattan is an island bound by a clear grid system. Corn mazes are islands bound only by corn. Here, in this lawless field, I was beginning to lose my sense of direction, and beginning to lose myself.

Is haystack the new haute couture? Is farmhouse the new Fendi? Could cows, goats, pigs, roosters, and hens be the latest accessories walking the runway for Valentino? Probably not, but these things are all I know now.

I was slowly spinning out. A scarecrow winked at me. I scribbled my number on a scrap of paper and handed it to a crow. He never called me back.

Sometimes, as you navigate the corn maze of your life, you have to take a moment to stop, look around, and acknowledge where you’ve come from and where you’re going. Everything happens for a reason. Love isn’t logical, and neither are the winding lanes of starch that stretch endlessly before you. As I finally reached the exit of the maze, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was I ever really lost or alone? Maybe this whole time I was a corn kernel, unable to see the hundreds of other kernels nestled around me, on this enormous cob we call New York City. ♦

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