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Boomer girl

“American Idol,” we need to talk. I just can’t pretend it’s working anymore. After seven years, it’s time to call it quits. I’m gonna slip out the back, Jack. Make a new plan, Stan. Take back the key, Lee, and get myself free.

In other words, “A.I.,” I want a D-I-V-O-R-C-E.

I know you ain’t too proud to beg, but don’t even ask for a trial separation. This is no seven-year itch. It will take more than a summer hiatus to heal after the worst season ever. I don’t know where we went wrong, but the feeling’s gone, and I just can’t get it back.

Don’t cry out loud. It’s nobody’s fault. Well, at least, it’s not MY fault. I showed up every week. I cheered, booed and, sometimes, tried to vote. Heck, I even cried during Season 3 (that Fantasia could really push my buttons). But it’s too late, baby. Something inside has died, and I can’t hide it and I just can’t fake it. Oh no, no, no, no, no.

In the first years of our relationship, you were so beautiful to me. Can’t you see? You were the perfect suitor for this wannabe superstar who spent her formative years singing to a hairbrush, a legend in my living room. I saw a part of me in every “American Idol” hopeful, even the dorky ones. Everybody plays the fool sometime. There’s no exception to the rule on a show that thrives on human exploitation.

But falling in love was such an easy thing ˚to do. Kelly Clarkson, Ruben Studdard and Clay Aiken were my first, my last, my everything. I laughed at all of Ryan Seacrest’s jokes. My love he didn’t need to coax. I even saw Simon Cowell in my dreams once. (But he wouldn’t stop insulting me, so it was more of a nightmare. He’s so vain, he probably thinks this column is about him.)

I told my “Idol”-deserting friends, if loving you was wrong, I didn’t wanna be right. They told me I’d better shop around — “Dancing with the Stars,” “America’s Got Talent,” “So You Think You Can Dance” — but I said, “Stop in the name of love!” If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody baby!”

My husband pleaded, “Baby, baby, don’t get hooked on it.”

But I insisted, “Give me that remote, ’cause I don’t wanna miss a thing.”

Then you used me and abused me with Ryan’s sweet little lies (“This will be the best year ever!”), Paula Abdul’s cheatin’ heart (“Oh my God! I thought you sang twice!”), Randy Jackson’s double talkin’ jive (“Yo! Check it out. It was just all right for me, a little pitchy but you da bomb, dawg”) and Simon’s gratuitous cruel-to-be-kind routine (“You have invented a new kind of torture”).

I kept forgetting we weren’t in love anymore. So I kept on keepin’ on, through not one but TWO Beatles nights, Dolly Parton, Andrew Lloyd Webber and “inspiration” weeks. Might as well face it, I was addicted to love.

Yes, “Idol,” you’re a hard habit to break, but I’ve finally lost that lovin’ feeling. Sure, breaking up is hard to do but I will survive.

It’s you I’m worried about.

So, in the grand tradition of America’s Number One ratings grabber, I leave you with my swan song:

“American Idol,” stay away from me.

“American Idol,” Paula let me be.

Don’t come hangin’ around my door.

I don’t wanna see your show no more.

I got more important things to do

Than spend my time growin’ old with you.

Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, good-bye.

Cathy Hamilton is editor of BoomerGirl.com and a 52-year-old empty-nester. Events recounted here may be embellished, exaggerated or completely made up because she can’t remember squat anymore.