There’s something off in the air when what excites me most about watching And Just Like That is spotting restaurants to update my NYC list, rather than engaging with the flimsy plotlines the series proposes. Season three is showing weak vital signs—it’s nowhere near compelling enough to be discussed weekly, because NOTHING HAPPENS!

First, they feed us the false hope that Carrie will go back to decoding Manhattan nightlife when she runs into her former neighbor, Lisette, at a trendy Village bar. But no. We hear a complaint that, in better days, might have been the episode’s theme—how to navigate dating in the digital age—yet it turns into a bizarre moment where a young millennial praises Gen X for not having to deal with it and being “enslaved by phones.” I’ll come back to that.

Meanwhile, Miranda discovers the pleasures of hate-watching, giving voice to everyone who still watches And Just Like That just to complain about millennials and their love of trashy dating reality shows. Of course, she gets hooked on them too. That could’ve been another good theme to explore, but instead it’s just a vehicle to show Miranda (once again) flirting with unavailable women. She admits she’s smitten with the BBC journalist she met last season, who doesn’t want to mix work and personal life. Sure, okay.

Seema—Samantha Jones’s stand-in—keeps going on endless first dates, brushing off men in mere seconds because she’s just that cool. And I do like Seema. But this is where she’ll never come close to Samantha: the original character was brutally honest and self-aware in declaring that “finding one dream man and settling down” wasn’t realistic or even desirable. Samantha would have taken every date Seema tosses aside (yes, even at 60, talking about Prince Charming) as an opportunity for fun—and definitely sex.

Sure, Samantha was basically a gay man in a woman’s body. But Seema could’ve at least enjoyed the meal. Interestingly, the matchmaker trend is back in fashion in Manhattan. And it would’ve been great if the series had embraced the episode’s opening topic—Lisette complaining about being tethered to dating apps—to explore this thriving world where real-life matchmakers have been doing the same job for centuries. Sex and the City would have gone there. Just saying.

And Charlotte? Well, she and Lisa (always playing one note too loud in the comedy department) are tangled up in the school admissions game, picking a mentor to help get their kids into better colleges. It’s another regression that makes the show feel more like Gossip Girl—all competitive moms, fancy schools, and rich kids under pressure. And it gets worse when you realize it’s being shot on the same sets as the teen series (which, by the way, was the adolescent soap-opera version of Sex and the City). Supposedly, Charlotte is too busy to notice that Anthony now owns a bakery on the Upper East Side. So what?

Back to Carrie: she’s in her new apartment, scribbling her next book in the private garden, when she notices a rat infestation. She wants to call Aidan immediately, but they’ve agreed to a “no contact” rule. Excuse me?

And seriously, can someone teach Carrie how to send a voice message? We get a whole scene of her dictating a message—without sending it—only to switch to emojis (how modern!) in the end. Cringe.

Aidan appears out of nowhere, without even a call or a text (this is the 21st century, and my 80-year-old parents use phones better than these two), to apologize and say the rules they set are nonsense—they should communicate and see each other more often. Carrie is thrilled.

My recap is accurate. That’s exactly what happened, exactly how it played out. I only left out that Carrie hires a handsome gardener who could be a potential love interest—but she’s so emotionally sterile, I doubt it (though the trailer suggests it’ll be Seema who tries to “decode” gardening with him).

And Just Like That still has a serious issue with being out of sync with its own audience. It’s not even about trying to appeal to younger viewers. In a way, this insecurity mirrors Gen X’s awkward dance with millennials—but Carrie and co. don’t explore this tension. They’re still stuck finding it charming to joke about the pre-digital era, as if those days were inherently more romantic. They think it’s funny to show they haven’t mastered technology, and that ultimately “things haven’t really changed.” That’s shallow—and outdated.

What they could have delved into is how apps still haven’t built a meaningful bridge for connection (Lisette vs. Seema’s matchmaker); how dumb reality shows manage to resonate with young people; and, in Charlotte’s case, what it means to raise anxious, high-achieving teens today.

But it’s through Miranda that the show reveals its true ethos: And Just Like That fully embraces hate-watching. Like the fictional reality show “Bi Island,” it knows it’s bad—but also knows we’ll keep watching. See you next week, resigned and ready.