The year is 2007 and I'm walking down Spring Garden Road with three girlfriends. We are, of course, comparing ourselves to Sex and the City characters, because that's what groups of four girls do in 2007. One of us is in a long term relationship, so she's Charlotte. One of us has a fabulous shoe collection, so she gets to be Carrie. And there is a very obvious Samantha in our midst. So I'm like, "Awesome, I have to be Miranda?" Because nobody wants to be Miranda.

Fast forward to a few days ago when I was watching an old episode of Sex and the City and I remembered that conversation. And I realized: I really am Miranda. I've always been Miranda. I know I'm not a Samantha, because I can't even say the word 'penis' out loud. Charlotte's old-fashioned nature is a little gross to me, and while everybody wants to be Carrie, Carrie's kind of annoying, isn't she? Keeping clothes in the oven and wearing those ridiculous outfits everyone pretended to love?

Miranda is straightforward, tells it like it is, balances a family and a relationship and a career. She runs and she once ate an entire cake out of the garbage. She doesn't take shit from others and is sarcastic and funny. She takes care of business but likes to have a good time too. She knows what she likes and goes after it. What's wrong with that?

So I'm finally ready to admit it and own it, loud and proud. I'm a Miranda. I feel like declaring this publicly and feeling OK with it means I'm a grownup now.