Babygirl vs. Bridget Jones

The Gen X Sex Report No One Asked For, but Here We Are

What a week. Anniversary, sick, disgusting weather. Blech. If someone would kindly meet me for a coffee or, better yet, a morphine drip, I’d be grateful. But since I’m still riding out my self-imposed quarantine, let’s pretend I have a podcast. (I’d start one if I weren’t lazy, but alas.) So today, it’s just you, me, and a deep dive into the New York Times’ recent revelation:

Gen X women are having more sex.

This is fascinating because I know very few women in my age bracket who are taking actual advantage of their midlife sexual prime. We’re exhausted, overstimulated (in all the wrong ways), and spending far too much time toggling between perimenopause TikToks and deciding whether to invest in another Retinol supplement.

And yet—two cultural curios have landed in our laps, offering wildly different takes on what it means to be a sexually active, self-actualized woman in 2025:

On one side, we have Babygirl, in which Nicole Kidman plays a successful but spiritually broken executive running what can only be described as a dystopian version of Robot Amazon. She has unresolved childhood trauma from a cult, which—of course—explains why she ends up entangled with a sad, greasy Bushwick bro who has the gall to sport baby bangs—and sweaty ones at that.

And yet, Babygirl asks us to believe that this profoundly unwashed man-child is the key to Nicole Kidman’s awakening—a reclamation of her repressed desires. But is it desire, or is it just another entry in the long, sad history of women being told that the road to liberation involves being degraded and humiliated?

(Sexual agency! She’s choosing this! Sure, but is she? Or is she just too exhausted to ask for something better?)

And just when I was wondering when I became such a prude, Peacock had a fun surprise.

Enter Bridget Jones.

Bridget, my soft, chaotic, wildly relatable girl. A woman who, despite her smoking, drinking, and questionable decision-making, is so much more than a punchline. At her core, she is deeply romantic—and in a way that I want to believe in.

Bridget’s love life isn’t about being debased in a dimly lit, seedy hotel room by a dude who probably only washes his sheets when his mom visits. No, her world is charming. London is always dusted in Christmas lights, her friends are loyal and hilarious, and she still ends up with men who want her despite every misstep.

(A novel concept, I know.)

She gets Mark Darcy, a man who tells her he likes her just as she is. She gets Hugh Grant, an affable scoundrel with charm for days. Eventually, after losing her Darcy, she gets a younger man—not because she has some desperate, last-gasp-at-youth scenario, but because she’s hot and fun, and he knows it. (PS- he’s also hot and fun; she knows it. It’s Leo Woodall, for Cripe’s sake.)

Let’s contrast that with Babygirl, where the entire premise hinges on the idea that Nicole Kidman—an actual Hollywood deity—is so fundamentally wrecked by life that she’s willing to accept whatever scraps of scuzbag male attention she can get.

I’m sorry, what?

So what does all this say about us, Gen X women allegedly having all this sex?

Maybe it says we’re finally done playing along and done with the idea that we have to choose—between sexy and soft, between being desired and being respected, between getting what we want and settling for whatever men are willing to give.

Maybe that’s why, even now, I want to believe in Bridget.

Because I refuse to accept that the best we can hope for is a life spent negotiating our boundaries with men who don’t even own a complete set of sheets.

I want the rom-com: the laughter, the joy, the heat. Self-respect is mixed with self-acceptance—the choice to want more.

And for me, Maya Rudolph and Amy Poehler’s hilarious sketch on the SNL 50th with Mike Meyer’s Linda Richman made me laugh so very hard. The way they dismissed Miles Teller after drooling over him is also far more relatable for our crowd. Because Linda and her red nails are far more fun, but maybe that’s just me. It’s nice that we have such a range of women of a certain age to talk about I suppose. Very nice indeed.

And you wanna know what I find really sexy? A cup of coffee in bed, served by my husband of 23 years. Not out of obligation, not as some weird power play, but because he loves the fuck out of me. Just as I am.

Now that’s hot.