He won’t be rockin’ Cameron Diaz’s body
anymore.
When Cameron Diaz, 34, and Justin Timberlake, 25, announced
their split a few days ago, I was pretty devastated.
Almost as devastated as when I discovered Britney Spears, Paris
Hilton and Lindsay Lohan had become the undisputed triumvirate of
no-panties partying.
But what’s more, the reason the former boy-band heartthrob
broke up with his girlfriend of three years might be summed up in
two words: Scarlett Johansson.
Come on, Timberlake. You should know by now that getting lost in
translation doesn’t kick as much butt as dating the hottest
Charlie’s Angel to date.
Unless butt isn’t the body part you’re lusting
after.
But while the voluptuous vixen may be seducing him now, the man
was tearin’ up my heart back in 1997.
When I was in junior high, I had my whole life planned out:
attend UCLA, marry Justin Timberlake, and be serenaded to sounds of
“God Must Have Spent (A Little More Time On You)” every
night as I fell asleep.
The prospect of being known as “Justin Timberlake’s
wife” didn’t faze me. I’d be famous ““
photographed in People magazine every week in a different Michael
Kors or Vera Wang outfit with that delicious eye candy on my
arm.
Maybe I’d even score a movie deal or two out of my 15
minutes of fame. Who cares if I can act? Paris Hilton
can’t.
But the demise of the Diaz-Timberlake romance got me to thinking
this weekend as I celebrated my own three-year anniversary with my
boyfriend.
On Saturday, he took me on a surprise outing to the San Diego
Zoo. After four hours of gawking at giraffes, marveling at
meerkats, and going picture crazy at the llama exhibit (I think I
took about 62 photos of these cuddly creatures), we ended the day
watching the waves crash on the beach while consuming a scrumptious
dinner of lobster bisque, steak, pinot noir and mud pie.
Our relationship is pretty solid, but I’m not going to
lie: It’s just as vulnerable to outside stress as any
celebrity couple’s.
But while all UCLA couples have to endure the same travails that
former couples Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston, Adam Brody and
Rachel Bilson, and Timberlake and Diaz did, we’ve got one
thing going for us that they don’t.
We don’t have the entire world watching us as our lives
fall apart.
We don’t have to walk into Ralph’s grocery store at
11 p.m. and face tabloids and magazines screaming headlines such as
“Justin’s Revenge Romance: A bitter breakup with
Cameron Diaz drives Justin into the arms of her worst enemy,
Scarlett Johansson.”
If I was shopping for Kraft macaroni and cheese and got in line
to pay and then read “Julianne’s Boyfriend Leaves Her
For Bouncy Bimbo,” I’d probably start crying too.
We don’t have to enter a crowded room full of industry
professionals after a breakup and have people look at us with pity,
whispering, “Oh, did you hear about that poor
thing?”
And we don’t have paparazzi taking photos of us sans
makeup, chowing down on enough Chinese takeout to feed Kalluk and
Tatqiq, the San Diego Zoo’s polar bears.
So in retrospect, maybe my desire to be in a high-profile,
star-studded relationship wasn’t as perfect as I thought it
would be.
I mean, who wants the entire UCLA campus to know about their
heartbreak? Some things are better left unsaid.
At least if I ever broke up with my boyfriend, the only people
who would know would be my 700 Facebook friends.
Fylstra thinks that Diaz should hook up with Hugh Jackman.
If you agree, e-mail her at jfylstra@media.ucla.edu.