Brit Brit

BritBrit

I spend quality time thinking about Britney Spears.  The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.  I think about her music, or should I say, her “music.” 

There’s this song called Piece of Me – I completely relate to this song.  No, not the part about the media drama.  No, not the part about being an American Dream since she was Seventeen – although, I was pretty cute at 17, I must admit.  No, the paparazzi doesn’t flip me off either – they pretty much respect my privacy.

The part where she talks about everyone wanting something from her.  And how she never has time for herself. 

And how she has to go to Kohls just to get a little peace and quiet.  And when she is in Kohls she impulse buys a shirt made by Sonoma, even though she KNOWS if she washes it just once it will no longer be cute.  In her song, Brit mentions telling her kids “scram kids, you’re bothering me.”  She talks about loving her job and her kids and her home, but how she just can’t make a decision about the plaid sofa – should she recover it, or just get rid of it and buy a new one.  And she obsesses about this dumb sofa and why can’t she just make a decision?

It’s enough to make a person want to shave her head.

I worry about her dancing.  Why doesn’t she dance anymore??  She’s not that old, is she?  I wonder if she had a mishap like I had when I was a “dancer” – you know, the time in the 8^th grade when I was in the Let’s Dance Company, located on East North Street. 
 
I will tell you about this time if you PROMISE not to repeat it.  Ok, there was this recital and I had on a jungle-themed leotard.  The leotard had attached legging things.  And the leotard crisscrossed between my 14 year old boobs.  Ok, my boobs were really only about 13 months old at the time.  But I had been thinking and praying for these boobs for 14 years so I felt like I already knew them.

Anyway, there was a really cool part of the dance where I slide down on my side onto the stage floor.  Then I do something really awesome and flexible with my legs while moving my arms in a fanned out motion.  It was really, really cool.  I looked really cool doing the complicated choreography.

But my 13 month old boobs were not quite buoyant enough to support the criss-cross leopard leotard.  And the criss cross part of the leotard decided to give way, and spring over to the LEFT, exposing my 13 month old left boob.  On stage.  At my recital.

So back to Brit.  While driving to work I worried, has she had some kind of dance humiliation that has encouraged her to never again dive on the dance floor or do the fan-arm-move?  I can’t remember the last time I have seen Brit simulate something naughty on a stage floor.  It is so disappointing.  Then, I remember this is Britney.  We have already seen her boobs.

Is it because she is getting old?  This pains me for her.  Because I can relate.  Getting old sucks.  I’ll bet she has her schoolgirl outfit that she wore in her Baby One More Time video, hanging in the back of her closet, behind the zipped basketball hoody her boyfriend gave her and she will NEVER wear.  I bet when she hasn’t had a carb in a few days and has laid off the wine, she actually tries on that schoolgirl outfit.  Which sends her into a fit of despair.  And then her boyfriend/agent/conservator has to tell her he loves her as she is. 

But then in Piece of Me Britney says “with a kid on my arm, I’m still an exceptional earner.”  I think this statement is extremely deep. 

What she is saying is:  cut yourself a break.  Because every day you get up and you deal with a Husband (I mean boyfriend/manager/conservator) who doesn’t seem to age.  Then you go to work and talk to crazy people all day long.  Then you come home and those rugrats have to be fed (AGAIN, GOD THEY ARE RELENTLESS!). 

And the running ticker tape in your head has got to stop someday.  Or they will put you in the back of an ambulance and drive you to the loony ward while people take your picture.

Or, even worse, you could miss it.  Because someday your kid will have a 13 month old boob.  And if you are so strung out with the paparazzi following you around, or worrying about what Bentley to buy or whether those blond extensions in your hair look real AT ALL, you won’t have the peace of mind to explain to your own child:

Everybody has had a wardrobe malfunction.  No one will remember your wardrobe malfunction tomorrow. 

Now get your IPod out and let’s dance in the kitchen.