My Dear Madonna letter

I recently watched the new Madonna/Justin Timberlake video, 4 Minutes, online - I'm too old to watch MTV anymore and I have no interest in sitting through an episode of Real World 27 - Duluth, MN waiting for the ten minutes a day they play actual music videos. While it was visually intense and the CG aspects were amazing, I am ready to announce, Madonna and I are breaking up.

This is not a hasty split, but rather the culmination of years of abuse and neglect. We were once so happy, Madonna and I. Our relationship began more than twenty years ago with a ten year old me standing in front of my bedroom mirror lip-synching into a hairbrush as I listened to Borderline on WPLJ - too young to buy any albums of my own I was at the mercy of the airwaves. This music was fun and great to dance to in my Smurf pajamas. When I finally got a glimpse of the woman responsible for this hit on the (in my house) forbidden MTV I was mildly put off by her disheveled appearance, but I loved her chutzpa as she spray painted that white Porsche. Then came Like a Virgin, which I liked to a degree, but was uncomfortable even at eleven with its sexual undertones. Once Material Girl hit the airwaves though, Madge and I really got serious. I would still, to this day, wear the dress from that video and who doesn't love the idea of being catered to by a bevy of men who adore you? While she did not maintain this level of glamor on a regular basis, I accepted her need to express herself in her ripped-and-torn kind of way and eventually begged my mother for rubber bracelets as the cool girls at school started dressing like Madonna. They went very well with my corduroys and turtlenecks as there was not a shot in hell I'd get any other item of clothing even vaguely resembling Madonna's get-up. Regardless, it was the upbeat music and her attitude of fun rebellion that I adored.

Madonna and I continued our affair, becoming more intense in my middle school years as the True Blue album provided the soundtrack for my one-sided love affair with Brian Cahill which consisted of my strategically placing myself in line so I could wind up his lab partner. I still remember hearing Open Your Heart on the eighth grade ice skating trip and hoping he would notice me. He didn't. It was during this honeymoon phase that Madge and I hit our first disagreement, but I forgave her for Who's That Girl and we moved on. During this period she also became more beautiful to me as she actually started wearing clothes rather than rags, started sporting that adorable platinum bob and had developed some serious guns. She looked fit and healthy and beautiful and I wanted to be her.

Fast forward to 1989. Like a Prayer was released and my world was officially rocked. Madonna was now sporting chocolate brown waves and was wearing the most beautiful wine colored satin cocktail dress as she danced around burning crosses and made out with a black Jesus inciting the rage of the Pope himself! My friend Rebecca and I must have worn out our cassette(!) copies that came out of the package smelling like incense (take that Vatican!!) And who can forget the fun Cherish video with that little mermaid boy and his hot dad? Sigh. The coup de gras, however, was undoubtedly Express Yourself. "Come on girls! Do you believe in love?" Does a sixteen year old girl need any other anthem when given this gem about demanding displays of affection from your boyfriend or kicking his ass to the curb? I think not. This was also the period of the cone bra, but ignoring that, I thought Madonna and I were partners for life.

Then, things got ugly. Madge got bored and started all this crazy kink stuff with Erotica and Bedtime Stories. Frankly, I was a little uncomfortable. I felt cheated and betrayed. Where was my good time music and liberating lyrics? I could take some subtle sexuality hidden in the lyrics, but now I was embarrassed if my dad walked into the room when I was listening to some of her songs since they sounded like soft core porn. And the videos, please. My parents would as soon let me watch that as they would Deep Throat. Madonna forgot about me in her efforts to shock the world and gay men and people who had leather bodysuits in their closets became her demographic of choice. We had now reached our first break up and I rebounded with Erasure and Yaz.

Over the next ten years or so I'd take a listen to what latest Madonna tune was out. Kind of like Googling an old boyfriend. We got back together briefly when I loved Ray of Light. By now Madge had moved out of her sex-shop phase, but unfortunately, Kabbalah, macrobiotic food and anglophilia took over and now I can say with certainty we are done for good. She has become too serious and self-conscious for me, and the music is no fun. While her recent stuff does have a good beat, there's no personality in it, no "let's have fun together" vibe. She has become a sanctimonious, over-produced, underfed, overly Botoxed, too British version of herself (sorry Adam, but I only like my Brits genuine).

So, goodbye Madonna. Thank you for all the wonderful times we had together. I will never forget them - like dancing to Like a Prayer at my wedding - but I have to move on. I wish you luck. Now that you're fifty maybe you're ready to make some life changes. I doubt it though. My advice to you? Move back to the States, eat a damn cupcake and write me a third wave feminist anthem. If not, at least we'll always have Vogue.