–a middle-aged man asks you to switch seats with him on the airplane so that he can have the aisle, and you smiley politely and say, “No, thank you.”
–you’re going to be late for work and you feel no need to elaborate beyond: “I have an appointment.”
–you’ve stopped staging interventions for friends who are still clinging to their middle school eating disorders. So. Exhausting.
–you don’t respond to booty calls earlier than 10 p.m. or past the hour of 1:30 a.m. You’ve got to start somewhere in the standards department.
–you don’t feel guilty asking to switch tables at a restaurant when you’ve been seated next to a booth of ten screaming high school girls with earrings bigger than their heads, the bathroom with a wafting scent of “yuck,” your ex-boyfriend, your ex-boyfriend’s mother, or your ex-boyfriend’s mother’s decorator who she secretly screws every Friday afternoon, 3 p.m. on the dot.
–you sit proud and tall when your ex-boyfriend and his new GF plop down at the table next to you. After all, you’re a GAW. (No points deducted for eschewing dessert in order to haul ass out of there ASAP.)
–you’ve made a vow to stop dating men who still have roommates. Who sell drugs. To the men you date.
–you realize your doorman judges you. And you just don’t give a damn.
–any and all “shit talking” takes place face-to-face, Real Housewives style.
–you’ve come to terms with the fact that Carrie Bradshaw was a selfish, whiny, bitch. With faboo shoes.
–a guy invites you to drinks for the first, second, third and fourth date–you dump him.
–you’ve decided it wouldn’t make you any less a feminist to actually learn how to cook.
–you’ve decided it would be pretty rad to date a guy who could actually cook well.
–you lose your phone, you contact your go-to’s for their numbers, but let the rest regain their spots organically. No need to set-up a Facebook group to get a bunch of random digits you’re better off purging, especially because…
–even if your Blackberry DID meet its death during a fateful fall in the toilet after one tequila shot too many, you keep that little tidbit to yourself.
Grown-Ass Woman 
Carrie really is a pain in the arse? Oh well. Like you said. her shoes DO make up for it.