Maybe it is pathetic. But I'm still not over him after almost 9 months. I get disgusted with the idea of him sometimes, so maybe that's progress. I am also, however, disgusted with the prospect of dating, touching, engaging or becoming physical with any man except for Jason on General Hospital. Which doesn't really sound like progress, but more like one of my crazy aunts who sleeps with a cheese knife under the mattress and is in love with Mario Lanza, who still croons to her from an LP. I am after all, at age 35, the propper age to be inducted into into the old maid trainee program. Which I guess is OK because I think once you're a member, you're allowed to blow up like a house and watch a lot of lifetime television, and that suits me just fine. It sounds almost as good as my Camp Cupcake fantasy, in which I can both get even with my ex and catch some rent-free R&R. But living in NYC you can't really progress by those traditional aging standards. Eligibility requirments to become an 'old maid' is up to like, 82. All the would-be members are taking strip aerobic classes, revealing their never distended belly buttons, still holding on to the hope that they'll meet a nice divorcee. Just like me. But I'm almost ready to retire. My ex constantly reminded us that "40 is the new 30." So why, still, am I uncomfortable with the fact that each day that passes since my 35th birthday brings me closer to the big 4-0? I mean Demi Moore is great and all, but honestly I just don't have the energy anymore, you know? I mean I'm a normally aging 35 year old. I have forehead wrinkles and a bursitis.

As a sidenote, if he said that 40 is the new 30, does that mean he couldn't date a 22 year old because she'd really only be 12?

Well, this past Saturday would have marked our 6th year anniversary. Since we started dating, that is. Most people don't get to celebrate the anniversary of their first meeting. They have to settle for boring wedding anniversaries. Not me! Now that I think about it, that seems a little pathetic; celebrating another year that'd gone by where he successfully avoided marriage and that I successfully hung in there without a commitment. And to tell you the truth, he was the one who made such a big deal with the sappy card every year; I would always be one day off.

Since he left the relationship with pretty much no (rational) explanation-a few nuggets- "Happiness just isn't enough for me...I just don't want a girlfriend anymore ...sooo, do you need cab fair?", I couldn't help wondering if I would recieve a call from the most recent ghost of boyfriends past. I mean, he always came back before!? Ouch, I know that was pathetic.

Anyway, I'm still not over him. Went on one lame-o date in the past 8 months and that's it. No funny business at all , much to some of my girlfriends' horror.

So I went to a bachelorrette party this weekend that was being thrown by a self-proclamed sexologist. The bride to be had organized a celebration of women that included burlesque-style strippers, sex-toy demos and of course, dirty bingo. I attended the party with a group of women from work varying in all ages and backgrounds which of course made for some borderline uncomfortable moments. "What was the last one she called?" asked the sixty-something year old receptionist. "Butt plugs, Dot. She called 'B - Butt plug'. Did you fill in your free space?"

I don't think I have to tell you who the winner was. When I went up to claim my vibrator, the sexologist, who also happened to be a client of ours, explained in graphic detail how to position it to get the most bang for the buck. When I quipped back that my prize will come in handy for my bursitis, the room went silent. Not only was I , I was also an ingrate. Oh and the best part- the thing also has a remote control- just in case .... well just in case I don't know what.

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.