I seem to be surrounded by good company these days- at least from what I see in the tabloids. First Nicole, then Uma, Jen Aniston, Denise, and let's not forget JLo, have all had the wind knocked out of them by men that either can't commit; or can

Walking on the same streets we always walked down together is still horrific, and turning corners wondering if I stepping wear he may have been 5 minutes ago is still haunting, considering how he has vanished into thin air. It's sort of hard to resolve. So my new thing is to pretend he doesn't live here, nor does he exist. Almost like he died, even though this person I spent 5 1/2 years with may be 1 block away.

Sometimes I pretend he doesn't exist. That came in handy last night when I ventured to a new gym to take a dance class. As part of the last ditch effort to squeeze out what's left of my "still sexy in my mid-30's" years, (like Marisa Tomei in those annoying GAP ads), I chose to take a 'strip aerobics' class. I figure that's one of those things I better get over with NOW, like wearing glitter make-up and flirting with the teenage boys that work at the tanning salon, while I'm hurtling towards middle age, crow's feet, and mammograms at warp speed, having not yet reached my destination.

Anyway, the class for the most part was truly exhilerating. I haven't danced in a year, (which is equal to 4 years in 'teenager years.' I was all high on myself for a while, like 'Yeah, I can still keep up with the kids!" The moment of pride, however, was of course followed by a mortifying event that could have meant the end of dance class if not for my new 'I don't give a rat's ass' attitude regarding public humiliation. If you are familiar with dance class, you know that the last 15 minutes or so are reserved for 'across the floor' combonations. And of course since it was my first time I stuck to the back, wallflower style. Gay Paulo's combonation called for a few turns, dramatic floor slams, and finally 3 very graphic masculine style 'floor humps.' It was a really embarassing move but I wanted to please Paulo as he was very encouraging yet serious about his choreography. He had us going in groups of three but there were 25 peple in the class, which if you do the math means that at the end of each set Ms. BeenThere was humping the floor alone while the young girls cheered and pumped their fists. In, if I might add, full view of the free weight station where the sweaty guys hang out and leer into the dance room.


I only have a few more years to fart around before I'll be forced to attempt the transition into 'attractive older woman', and frankly, I'm a little concerned about it. When I think of an aging attractive woman I think of someone who's 'classy'. Sweeping throught the city streets in some sort of suede coat, a grey-tinted mane, and some sort of Parisian affect, acqired not in Europe, but through - built years of independance. I certainly DON'T think of someone who still tries to stuff into low-waisted pants and is convinced the 'juniors' department is still an appropriate section. (Do I have to tell you about the time my sister had to scold me for shopping above my age group at Abercrombie & Fitch?)

I had better start letting go of this man, and learning how to be attracted to more stable men. I fear I won't be a good candidate for the attractive older woman. I feel like I will just start looking like a munchkin. I'm barely 5'2'' and at some point, I will start shrinking even more. I am going to start to look like those short social studies teachers who have no erotic appeal. And my biological alarm clock has already gone off and it's only so much longer I can press snooze. Oh my God, I just realized I was only in my 20's technically when I started seeing him, and now I am closer to 40 than I am to 30. OH MY GOD! Bastard.

Top 10 wishes for summer

These are my top 10 wishes for the summer:

1. He will develope a condition on his noodle that prohibits any contact.

2. I will stop being insane.

3. I will keep going to the gym, and be asked to be the oldest 'Bud Girl', and be in an ad that will make him regret his leaving me.

4. He will contract the exotic and rare "shrinking noodle disease."

5. One of my "get rich quick schemes" will be successful.

6. He will develope 'man-boobs.'

7. His noodle will fall off.

8. Someone at the fancy gym he drove me out of will compliment his noodle in the locker room.

9. My sense of humor will graduate from kindergarden to first grade.

10. I will stop thinking and writing about his noodle.

One thing I hate about 'He's just not that into you':

OK, it would have been nice to have the book during the second year of the relationship- when I chose to ignore his broken promises, and when he started to choose his comfort over my safety and sanity. But I didn't (and I'm sure would have chosen to 'waste the pretty' for the next 5 years anyway regarldess of Greg B's advice.)

But I can't stand how this phrase is buzzing from the everyone's lips whenever a guy poops out, regardless of history or circumstances. I mean yes, it would be nice to have Greg B as my personal relationship crossing guard for the courting stages of the relationship. But for some of us, after 4 years of passion, pain, happiness, firsts, traditions, and compromises, it feels a bit vulgar when in referencing my defunct love affair there is some listener squawking "I've got it! I think he just wasn't into you!"

Gee thanks. I'm so relieved that the last 5 years of my day to day life were a lie. And I suppose I should interpret 5 years of telling me how unbelievable it was that he could feel so passionate and yet so comfortable- am I supposed to interpret that as an overcooked expression of lukewarm feelings? Spoken to what, get into my pants on a nightly basis? To get invited to those exciting annual Scrabble tournaments where he was 'honored' to converse with my grandmother with middle-stage Alzheimers?

I mean it's horrifying to hear that, right? Please, everybody- be careful when throwing around the HJNTIY.

If I'm not that into somebody, I don't want to see them naked. I don't want to lay with them while they're sick, and go out to buy their Kleenexes and tampons. I don't want to talk about my difficult childhood with them. I certainly don't want to drive 6 hours in a day to see them for 2 hours, and then get 3 hours of sleep before work.

I can tell I'm gaining weight quickly. Not only because of the usual symptom where the stomach distends to a point where I'm actually fascinated and can work it like clay or dough, but also because there's so much more of a rub between my rib cage and my (underboob?), a la National Geographic. I always do this after a breakup. Usually there is a period of near starvation for 6 weeks or so, followed by a period of non-stop gorging. And this time I really can't afford it, I mean I'm 35! There will come a time when I will get to the upswing of one of my yoyo-ing weight cycles, and I will never ever swing down to a normal weight again. I'ts like some women who have children. After the second or third child they were just DONE, there was no recovering their figure. I think that might be like me and breakup weight. At some certain point I'll just give birth to a Krispy Kreme donut and declare "Game Over."
This time, I will deem it as HIS fault. I mean, last year at this time I had a hoppin' body. I was at the top of my game. It's not uncommon when you're with a commitmentphobic man, that you are at the top of your game. I mean you can never OFFICIALLY relax, so you're always working on yourself like a single person, like someone who's in the early stages of a relationship. Sustaining that independant, at the "top of my game" crap became quite tiring after 5 1/2 years. I mean, there were many times I displayed vulnerability, but after responses like "Hmm. Sorry, babe. What are you gonna do?", I pretty much gave up.

I have two things to share with you:

#1 My emotional cripple of an ex-boyfriend has not come back. Considering he has not resurfaced for 1 month longer than it took for him to crawl back crying last time, I figure I am officially abandoned. And SINGLE. And 35. Holy Crud. It was a lot easier in my twenties getting on after a breakup. Back then, Mrs. BeenThere, Carol and I would mix up some new cocktail, watch taped reruns of 'Melrose Place', and possibly end the night shaking our fists and barking the chorus to 'Who Let the Dogs out.' We always had a lot of fun, even at our most abysmal moments, except that one time we experimented with a new cocktail called a 'Dirty Bird.'
A word of caution: Do not, ever, ever fuel a night of misery drinking with 'Dirty Birds' or any other milk-based concoction.
So anyway, breakups aren't as much fun anymore. Not now that Mrs. BeenThere is in Chicago with her two small children and Carol is in Connecticut with the same.

#2 I loved ex dearly but with the death of the relationship also comes the death of a life construct, a fantasy I thought I was close to acheiving with my ex of 5 1/2 years: The Barbeque Fantasy. I was conviced that at 35 I'd be spending many Saturdays with my best friends and family (like, kids+husband+ canine), in the same way my parents spent their Saturdays. You know, getting together, deciding between macaroni and German Potato salad, arguing over who took who's cheesburger (or gardenburger in this age), and capping off the night with the couples battling it out over a game of Taboo or maybe even Jeopardy. OK, OK maybe my BBQ fantasy sounds a little hokey to sophisticated readers, but really, that's what some people are doing. And it sounds a lot better than my current reality of sitting home alone on a Saturday on a bare mattress that needed to be stripped after the foster dog I brought home peed on it when I refused to adapt to sleeping alone. How is it that the closest I can come to my BBQ fantasy is taking the train down to Nathan's Hot Dog's with my foster dog? I mean, he's not even mine.

S.O.S.

Starting off with technical difficulties! The broken down cart of author #2's relationship hit a fatal speed bump 2 months ago, with her BF abruptly abandoning her and later slamming his literal door into her literal face. So "man that won't commit" has actually morphed into "man that will never commit". Ouch, it still hurts. Relax, everybody, our book about the slippery creatures is still forthcoming, only a bit more sardonic, perhaps, than anticipated. I won't rehash the horror so much on this site; after all, we are trying to offer enlightenment and humor. Suffice it to say it was grusome and unexpected, most definately 'lifetime movie of the week' material.
Thankfully and suprisingly, I seem to have finally passed through the Howard Hughes-like stage where all I could do was watch daytime TV and eat M&M's that I had lined up on my stomach and that would fall into my navel. You know, when you're well aware every second that it sucks to be alive, but what else are you gonna do. Oh, I know, how about complain and feel sorry for myself, that sounds like the next appropriate action.
This Easter weekend, he can just go and suck on a giant egg. At least that's one less errand I have to do this weekend, go to pick out his favorite candy at two seperate candy stores and shop for a damn basket. HaHa! He's done it now! I'll bet he's really going to miss those twizzlers and other bonbons, realize he's made the biggest mistake of his life and come slinking back to my door. And then what will I say? I still haven't decided but in my fantasy I have 3 versions of responses:
"Kiss my Grits!"
"I would sooner pull a dimond out of my bum than trust you again", and
"What took you so long to come back this time?"

If history is any indication, my response could be a schizophrenic combo of those three sentiments. BECAUSE THAT'S HOW INSANE I FEEL AFTER ALL HIS BROKEN PROMISES, SMOOTH, EMPTY SENTIMENT, and SYMPATHY PLOYS! Uuugh!

Meet Ms. DunThat and Mrs. BeenThere, with their first case commitmentphobes



















Just call us Mrs. Been There and Ms. Done That. Together we have spent the better part of our twenties and early thirties in the Relationship/Self-Help aisle at various bookstores, desperate to unlock the secret of curing male commitmentphobia.

After all of our years of intensive study at Barnes and Noble U., we are both aware of how, in theory anyway, woman are supposed to behave in a relationship. Women are supposed to state what they want without shame or fear and if the the man in question doesn't share the same vision, conclude 'He's just not that into me' and move on without regret, confident that the man of her dreams is lurking right around the corner.

Yeah, whatever.

If you are anything like us, you have a hard time parting with anything you are attached to, no matter how hideous, outdated, or dysfunctional it is. And this includes your boyfriend.


We are firmly convinced that the same gene that keeps a woman from getting rid of a pink faux alligator bag she got on sale six years ago at Ann Taylor (and has never worn) is the same gene that prevents her from getting rid of the guy she started dating the year she bought the bag (even though he hasn't proposed or invited her to move in or even given her a key to his apartment.) She worries that if she tosses either of them she will one day see them hanging off the arm of some other chick, they will look really good, and she'll regret it for the rest of her life.

For any of you that asked asked yourself the following question:

"I'm in a relationship...so why do I still feel single?"

Mrs. BeenThere and Ms. DunThat feel your pain. Best friends for 25 years, they realize that laughter and support among friends is the most valuable resource available to a gal whose lovelife has gone seriously wrong. Get advice from Mrs. BeenThere and Ms. DunThat,
find book and film recommendations, musings on celebrity relationships and survival tips, as well as links to other sites where you can relate and commiserate with similar women going through the same ongoing drama.

It took Mrs. BeenThere seven full years to get her commitmentphobic boyfriend down the aisle.
At one point his commitmentphobia was so extreme, he actually took a job in another country, without telling her! A sane woman would probably have taken that as a sign that the relationship was not meant to be. Not her! She kept at it, refusing to see the ‘writing on the wall.
As for Mrs. DunThat, sadly, her 'man who won't commit' is now 'man who didn't commit and has since vanished.' Her road to recovery is also journaled in our blog.

There are many other women out there like us, who are tearing there hair out, rather than take the practical suggestion to “wash that man right out of her hair.”
If you have the sinking feeling that your ailing relationship should be taken off life support, but you simply cannot bear to sign the ‘do not resuscitate’ order, this site will make that ‘in-between’ time a little bit easier to bear.