It had to happen, my nonsexual crush on Nick Lachey is over. Finished. Caput. Right now some of you probably think this is piling on, what with the recent demise of his marriage to Jessica Simpson and all. But really the marriage’s failure had nothing to do with it. Instead it just brought Nick Lachey back before my eyes again and demonstrated that the two of us had become incompatible and that it was time for each of us to go our separate ways. (Nick’s separate way will actually be whatever way he would have pursued otherwise as he does not know that I exist or previously had a non-sexual crush on him.)

We had a good run, Nick and I. Since circa 2002 when I became one of the only men in America to regularly plan their schedule around the newest Newlyweds show to a couple of weeks ago when I would eagerly open up any magazine with he and Jessica Simpson on the cover to see how things were progressing.

We’ve been together through the good times (USC’s victory over Oklahoma in the Orange Bowl), the sad times (when despite being southern Jessica couldn’t manage to correctly impersonate a southern accent in Dukes of Hazard), and the downright horrible times (when one of your buddies flipped the drag-racing car and for a moment it seemed like he might be seriously injured), but through it all I’ve stood nonsexually by your side (side being defined expansively to include most of the United States and some abutting Caribbean islands such as Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands). But there comes a time when the flickering flame of a non sexual crush just doesn’t warm you the way it used to, when the soft embrace of the televisions glow isn’t quite as clear, and when the harsh reality of our separation has become all too apparent.

I don’t want to make this any more awkward than it has to be. There isn’t any point in your asking if there is another nonsexual crush hiding in the closet (it isn’t R. Kelly I promise, I wouldn’t do that to you). Come on Nick, we’ve been through too much for you to pry. We both knew this would end eventually. (Of course you never knew it started either). Oh, ok, fine, you’re going to make this harder than it has to be. I can tell. It was just supposed to be a simple goodbye, a fond farewell where I toss you into the warm embrace of millions of women across the country who can’t wait to have sex with you, but you’ve had to go and make this difficult. Three years of happiness where only one of us knew the other existed was never enough for you was it? You always wanted more, first the Christmas specials and then the spin-off reality show about your own album, and my god, the albums, the albums alone that make any heterosexual man want to commit hari-kari (No, Nick not the announcer for the Cubs).

Well, ok, fine, if you’re going to make this hard, there is someone else. He’s an older man, an adult, not some flash in the pan singer who’s there one day for you and gone the next. He’s stable…he’s bona fide. Remember how I used to like the fact that you occasionally read the paper and rooted for sports teams, well this new guy writes for the paper. Writes for the paper Nick. Were you ever willing to do that for me? Seriously. I mean aside from those trite sports columns in the Cincinnati Enquirer about Bob Huggins and some Reds reliever who flicked off a fan. I’m sorry, this is getting ugly and I never wanted that to happen. Just let me be, just let me be Nick.

So you’re still around, you still want more. Ok, fine. The new guy has class and smarts and he almost single-handedly solved the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. He has a blueprint for ending the war on terror. Did you ever think about trying to stop the suicide bombers Nick, did you? Of course not, you were too busy buying arcade games and renting Ferraris and trying to get your solar pool cover to stay on top of your pool and scaring little kids at Halloween. And this new guy has written books, Nick. Actual books. Hardback books without pictures. No pictures, Nick. And he doesn’t wail while wearing wife beaters or even have an earring. He knows about globalization Nick and he writes for the New York Times. I didn’t want this to get ugly but you still don’t have any idea who I’m leaving you for do you? Figures, you always were so self-centered. It’s Thomas Friedman, Nick and he’s a long way from a has-been crooner. Plus, he has a mustache. And not one of those cool retro, I’m so hip mustaches. It’s one of those I had a mustache even before Magnum P.I. had a mustache, mustaches. But I’ve gone on too long and you’re crying now. I never meant to make you cry Nick. I hope you’ll let us be--don’t we deserve our nonsexual happiness too?

   
Thomas Friedman makes his case for why Clay should leave Nick Lachey.

________________________