DEAR GEORGE-HOW COULD YOU?!

Dear George,

It’s been several weeks now, but I am finally coming to grips with my heartache.

You have decided to get married. And not to me.

Oh, I realize that there were problems inherent in our relationship. The fact that we have never actually met was no doubt a stumbling block.

Still, that little detail never stopped me from professing my undying devotion to you. Let the record show that I did this publicly, for 15 years, in my newspaper column.

And yes, I admit, there was the somewhat thorny issue of my being already married. But don’t all great love stories require that we overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles? Surely, if nothing else, Ocean’s Eleven taught us that! Think what it took for you to win Julia Roberts in that film. (Okay, now that’s enough thinking about Julia Roberts.)

I always believed you and I had an understanding. You would continue to date Las Vegas cocktail waitresses, Dancing with the Stars contestants, and professional wrestlers, while firmly asserting your intention never to marry. I, in turn, could feel secure that you would never give your heart to one of these floozies. You would remain unattached, unencumbered, eternally…possible.

So what happened?!

How did you let yourself become involved with someone so darn worthy? What could you have been thinking when you started dating an Oxford-educated, tri-lingual, international human rights lawyer and activist?  Clearly, this woman was never going to make it on Dancing with the Stars!

And just where does that leave the rest of us, who have adored you, but don’t have degrees from both Oxford and NYU? Those of us who don’t speak three languages, but have been–I will now share, though I was keeping it as a surprise–doggedly studying Italian, with the dream of someday being invited to your villa on Lake Como?

If you had thought about others–well, me, in particular–you would not have gotten down on one knee when you gave her the 7-carat ring (that you yourself had helped design).  This behavior clearly falls into the category of kicking a person when she is down.

Oh, George. Che peccato! as I have learned to say in Italian. Such a pity!

Still, I want you to know that I have forgiven you, George, and will try to be brave.  In the immortal words of Adele, I wish nothing but the best for you.

And if, perchance, this marriage thing doesn’t work out, you know I will have you back.

In the meantime, though—just to help me refocus a bit—would you happen to know if Jude Law is seeing anyone?