But the dialogue in that cafeteria scene is fairly funny—especially Miranda’s line about self-diagnosing via the Internet by typing in a bunch of symptoms and waiting for the word “cancer” to come up—and as the episode plays out, the relevance of the lunch-location becomes clearer. “Hot Child In The City” is about otherwise mature and sophisticated adults who rationalize the ways in which they behave like teenagers, whether they’re hanging out at an arcade, sneaking back to their boyfriends’ room to smoke pot and listen to records, or feeling self-conscious about their new braces. Even Charlotte, when she tries to be an adult and confront the sexual hang-ups of her husband Trey (played by Kyle MacLachlan), gets stuck with a therapist who suggests they name their genitals in order to make sex more “whimsical.” And Samantha, feeling old because of the sexual frankness and cockiness of her wealthy teenage client (played Kat Dennings), learns to appreciate that as humble as her own childhood may have been, at least it was a childhood. The whole episode is rich with detail and thematic resonance, all sharply observed by credited writer Allan Heinberg.

Season four’s “Change Of A Dress” is another strong episode, even if sticks Charlotte with a lame storyline that has her melting down when her tap instructor asks her to dance to “Tea For Two” (a song that single people find “abusive” according to Charlotte). As with “Hot Child In The City,” “Change Of A Dress” uses Manhattan well, making “the city” as significant as the “sex” by having the characters walk and talk and eat in front of real place full of local color. And though I had nothing invested in the relationship between Carrie and Aidan (outside of enjoying Aidan-portrayer John Corbett when he was on Northern Exposure), it was still moving to track the dissolution of their engagement in “Change Of A Dress,” which climaxes with Aidan thinking he’ll reduce Carrie’s wedding-stress by suggesting they just run off and get hitched right away, only to hear Carrie admit that she doesn’t want to get married at all. The episode ends with a fake-out, as Carrie and Aidan sleep in separate rooms until Carrie comes to Aidan and lies down next to him. Then, in voiceover, she says, “The next day, Aidan moved out.”

My only qualm about “Change Of A Dress”—beyond it featuring another example of Carrie freaking out about something most normal people would find sweet—is that it shortchanges the rest of the foursome, which is a trend that continues in the season five and season six episodes I watched. Both “Critical Condition” and “The Post-It Always Sticks Twice” are driven by Carrie’s narcissism: In the former, she gets a good review of her book in the Times, but worries because the critic pegs her as a user of men; in the latter, she runs into her ex’s friends at a bar and goes out of her way to make sure they know that she’s not the bad guy. The likable young lady who bonded with her boyfriend’s mother (played by Valerie Harper) in “Shortcomings,” and who enjoyed having cookies and lemonade with her boyfriend in “Hot Child In The City,” becomes someone who’s both indecisive and controlling, a bad combo.

And yet I enjoyed “Critical Condition” and “The Post-It Always Sticks Twice,” because the vibe and structure of the show is so well-defined by the second half of its run: Between the location-shooting, the outfits, the endless supply of handsome-but-not-quite-right men, and the crazy new nightspots the ladies frequent from week to week, Sex And The City skillfully blends the outsized fantasy version of New York with characters who’ve become more complex. I can’t think of too many shows that could pull of a scene like the one in “Critical Condition” where the baby-hating Samantha agrees to watch Miranda’s little boy for a few hours while her friend gets her hair cut, and then has to use a “back massager” to repair the baby’s vibrating chair. (Miranda: “That better be brand-new.”)

It’s easy to pick apart Sex And The City. The heroines’ snobbery can be a turn-off (as in “Post-It,” where they’re appalled by the peanut shells on the floor at a downscale bar), and there’s rarely any subtext to their conversations. If Charlotte’s feeling melancholy because her second marriage isn’t as special as her first, she just tells everyone why she’s blue, and they offer advice. Not much bubbles below the surface.

But while the characters are often shallow, the show itself can be surprisingly deep. The movies fail because they take these women’s minor problems more seriously, which has the effect of making the characters look monstrously out-of-touch. The show more often makes them look foolish—and therefore more likable. Sex And The City works best when it takes its cues from its opening credits, which show Carrie strolling down a Manhattan street with confidence until she’s splashed by a bus bearing an even sexier photo of her on its side. Sex And The City is really about those multiple facades: the character in the bus ad, the real woman who’s trying to live up to that image, and the awkward gal who’s all wet.