Other than a passing fancy for Justin Timberlake and an ability to bear male children, I've never had much in common with Britney Spears. Unlike poor Brit-Brit, I've never been photographed driving with an infant on my lap, and I don't enjoy indulging in Red Bull-tinis with a Marlboro chaser. Except for a brief period following an unfortunate tanning incident in the early '90s, I've never been prone to leave the house sans underpants.
And, fortunately for me, I've made it a habit not to marry men whose most marketable ability is to star in television commercials highlighting their lack of marketable abilities.
Actually, at this point I guess my husband has more in common with the beleaguered pop tart than I do, seeing as how they both have the same haircut.
Now that Britney has checked herself into rehab for the second time in a week, her much-publicized life is beginning to feel a little too tragically Anna Nicole Smith for comfort.
Yet, as was the case with Anna Nicole, it's that sort of celebrity trainwreck that's impossible to ignore.
Though I've never been a Britney fan, I'll admit -- with no small amount of shame involved -- that I find myself fascinated by her unraveling and its cautionary tale of what happens when success comes too fast, too soon. Or, er, what happens when a young girl is forced to grow up under the unrelenting glare of the media spotlight.
Or maybe it's what happens after Justin Timberlake breaks up with you for cheating on him (and if he hasn't made this clear enough in his video for What Goes Around Comes Around, then ladies, you're beyond redemption).
OK, so maybe I'm not sure exactly what the lesson here is, but I'm pretty sure there's something to be learned from seeing America's erstwhile pop princess fall so sloppily off her pedestal and land with an ugly thud. The frightening thing is, with Britney it keeps looking as if it can't get any worse, and then it does.
Spectacularly.
First there was the much-ballyhooed 55-hour first marriage that put lie to the maxim that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Britney-watchers shook their heads in disbelief and, upon hearing of the ensuing annulment, sighed, At least that's over.
Then came backup-dancer-turned-pampered-spouse Kevin Federline, a man of dubious talents and even dubiouser personal grooming habits, and the couple's often tawdry courtship (his pregnant ex-girlfriend, her penchant for visiting public bathrooms barefoot, the uncomfortable voyeuristic incomprehensibility of Chaotic). After a much-mocked wedding (paragon of good taste Christina Aguilera reportedly called it trashy, pathetic and low-rent ) that culminated in a burgers and Buffalo wings reception and groomsmen dressed in tracksuits sporting the word Pimp, fans held their collective breath in the hopes that she had bottomed out and that marriage -- and, shortly thereafter, motherhood -- might bring maturity.
Yeah, not so much.
After a string of high-profile baby bobbles with firstborn son Sean Preston, including multiple car-seat-related snafus, and a nearly immediate second pregnancy resulting in two children born less than a year apart, she filed for divorce. Onlookers thought ditching K-Fed was a sign she had come to her senses; surely this would mark the beginning of a new-and-improved, less-skeezy Britney Spears. Instead there was the short-lived friendship with world's trashiest heiress Paris Hilton and repeated paparazzi photos that made the world Britney's gynecologist.
So much for the fresh start.
2007 dawned with reports of Britney publicly passing out during New Year's Eve festivities at a Las Vegas nightclub, while online photos of her spew-crusted SUV indicated an apparent inability to keep down her preferred meal of Cheetos and Red Bull during hard bouts of partying. Surely it could get no worse.
Then, last week came reports of a one-day rehab stint at Eric Clapton's Crossroads Centre in Antigua, quickly followed by the buzz-cut heard 'round the world. Oh, and yeah, now more rehab.
I, for one, am hoping that this time it sticks, partly because it's hard to watch someone so young -- even an overexposed, marginally talented virtual stranger -- flame out so sensationally, and partly because I'm afraid to see what's next if this is indeed not quite rock bottom.
How low can she go? These days, not even her hairdresser knows for sure.
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