My bosom, which played a solid supporting role in the long-running dramas of mating and motherhood, is in genteel retirement these days, appearing mainly as visual balance for the ever-swelling regions below my waist. Actually, my boobs, too, seem to be getting bigger and bigger, in inverse proportion to their practical usefulness.
In 1992, I went to Bosnia in the heart of the war with a flack jacket and helmet. I've been through the hollow echoes of 9/11. I've been to Katrina where I warmly opened my arms out to the returning refugees for the Red Cross. A week ago, as Hurricane Sandy thrashed against the windows of my powerless fourth-floor apartment in the West Village, I have never been as afraid as I was -- never.
I've forgiven lots of folks over the years, but I haven't forgotten the reasons why I had to forgive them. Allowing someone access to my heart after having it trampled isn't an act of forgiveness as much as it is an act of faith, and I'm not certain I have that kind of faith in anyone who already betrayed me.
I don't want to be sexual just to satisfy my physical needs any more. There has to be an emotional component now, and a compelling one at that. Rocket rides feel great shooting up into the sky, but nightmarish falling back to earth. It takes too long to heal the wounds of yet another failed relationship, so to behave in a manner my experience has proven will fail, is emotional suicide.
Steve Carell's character in Judd Apatow's "The 40-Year-Old Virgin" can breathe a sigh of relief; he's no longer the oldest virgin capturing pop cultur...