Real fans will find `Sex and the City' fun.

Byline: Dianne Williamson

COLUMN: DIANNE WILLIAMSON

I suspect I'm a bit of a movie snob.

At least, that's what I've been told. I favor films with sharp dialogue and characters, and I don't mind if they're dark or depressing, as long as they're, you know, good. I'm not among the crowd that only wants to be entertained with light fare, although I enjoy those movies, too, except when they feature Adam Sandler. But I've bitten my lip when girlfriends rave about a smarmy chick flick while insisting that oh-my-God I just have to see it.

All of which is a defensive lead-in to admit that I couldn't wait for the film version of "Sex and the City."

Even snobs have their guilty pleasures, and "Sex and the City" is mine. I still watch the late-night re-runs, although I've seen the episode when Carrie fights with Aidan about cleaning her closet a half-dozen times. A friend even bought me the "Sex and the City" board game for Christmas and I was somewhat horrified to realize how many trivia questions I could answer: After they broke up, how long did Steve sleep on Miranda's couch? (three weeks). Who made a sex video to clear her name? (Samantha). Whom did Samantha befriend while waiting to see New York's hottest breast cancer doctor? (a nun).

I enjoyed "Sex and the City" because it was provocative and bawdy and because, even though the four heroines were frequently obsessed with the lovers in their lives, their female friendships were strong and their intimate chats entertaining. I liked it because Carrie smoked cigarettes long after they went out of fashion. I liked that these independent women redefined what it meant to be single. And sure, I loved the outrageous clothes.

That said, the day I splurge on a pair of $400 Jimmy Choo pumps is the day that monkeys fly out of my polyester pants. And I admit that, unlike Carrie, I have never once written a newspaper column in my underwear. I also suspect that I probably wouldn't care for at least two of the foursome if I knew them in real life - Samantha was too slutty and Charlotte a Pollyanna with impossibly shiny hair.

But hey, it was fun. And it didn't matter if it was steeped in fantasy. Because here's the thing that true fans of "Sex and the City" already know: It wasn't real. If you don't believe me, ask yourself the following questions:

The next time you're having brunch with three girlfriends, casually solicit their views about a new sexual position involving your backside that your lover tried out the night before. In the stunned silence, would you be able to finish your Mimosa before someone grabbed the check?

If you had a girlfriend who had 44 sexual partners, how long before you suggest she lighten up on the Cosmos?

When was the last time you hopped out of a bed at midnight on a weeknight to meet a friend for a drink at a fabulous new club?

If your girlfriend was dating a guy you considered obnoxious and arrogant, what are the odds that you would keep your opinion to yourself? I mean, really?

Who dumps a dashing sports doctor for a dorky bartender?

When was the last time you met a datable guy while sweating up a storm sans makeup at your health club?

If you were having an affair with a married man whose wife caught you in the apartment and chased you down the stairs, breaking a tooth, would you hail a cab and take her to the hospital, or enter the witness protection program?

Have you ever had a one-night stand with a gorgeous French architect who left you a $1,000 thank you? How about a horse-drawn carriage ride through Central Park in mid-winter with a famous Russian artist?

Would you walk a dog in six-inch heels? In the rain? Would you ever wear a white bunny tail on a short skirt? How about a fake flower the size of the Chrysler Building on your see-through dress?

If your single friend was obsessed with marriage, how long before you stopped inviting her for cocktails?

If you haven't seen the movie, you'll enjoy it if you liked the series, but the movie isn't as good. Which is sort of like saying that Godiva chocolate isn't as tasty as Lindt. Sometimes, it doesn't really matter.

Contact Dianne Williamson at [e-mail].