STRANGER THAN FICTION: BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO, BUT A LAUGH MAY COME OUT OF IT

I knew it wasn't meant to be when he kept ending letters with, "take care."

My friend Al called the other day with a problem.

He wants to dump his girlfriend. And he wants to do it before Christmas.

Ouch.

You'd think this would be pretty routine for Al. In the few years I've known him, he's gone through women like The Other Half goes through Kleenex during allergy season. My favorite was the one he dumped because she was too possessive. She called him around 2 a.m. every day for several weeks after the dumping and said, "Al, I've brought a guy home with me and he's sitting in the living room. But I'm still in love with you. What should I do?"

We can't publish the answer in this family newspaper.

But the current girlfriend is another matter. She's already made the rounds and met all his friends. She's practically moved in. And Al suspects she's secretly picking out china patterns -- he caught her with a Mikasa pamphlet just last week.

It's not that Al's a mean guy. He's what I like to call "happiness impaired." If it appears things are going too well and he actually may be achieving a normal, healthy relationship, he runs like Pat Buchanan from a Marilyn Manson concert.

Oh, that sweet, naive girlfriend. If only I could call her, tell her what's going to happen and brace her for the shock. Maybe I could share my more spectacular dump stories to comfort her in her time of need.

SUBHEAD: RUSTED FLOORBOARDS

My first love dumped me like handful of coal into Latrell Sprewell's stocking -- OK, that's my last analogy. Oh well, he was nuts anyway. Instead of a bouquet, he'd send me an orchid corsage. I wore it to church one night.

"My, my, we going to the prom later?" one bitter old woman asked with a sneer, real Christian-like. Didn't she know true love when she saw it?

It was a long-distance romance. He lived in Chicago, I lived in Piedmont, we met through a mutual friend. In retrospect, there were plenty of signs that a dumping was to come.

1. As we drove along a Chicago highway in his pea-green, pile-of-junk car, I noticed something moving beneath my feet. It was asphalt. The floorboard of the passenger side was rusted out in spots, and the jerk didn't even warn me not to put my feet down.

2. He ended every letter with "take care," "luv ya" or "yours," carefully avoiding the word "love."

3. He kept recommending items from the low-fat menu when we went out.

He finally called to tell me it was over. He couldn't be tied down. He had to pursue his dream. Ends up his dream was to buy a new car and date a Jamaican girl named Michelle.

SUBHEAD: DRESSED FOR SUCCESS

Then there was John, by far the best dresser I've ever dated.

I lived in Sikeston and he lived with his parents in St. Louis, so we could get together on weekends and go to the zoo, the art museum, the botanical gardens, all that jazz.

But the best part was the shopping. John had an exceptional eye for color and style, and the clothes he picked out for himself and for me were spectacular.

It was a really nice, casual relationship. No basis for a romance novel or anything -- just a couple of people who really enjoyed each other's company.

I called his house one day, and his mom answered the phone. I'd never really talked with her much.

"Hi, Mrs. Jones (names have been changed to protect the innocent),"I said. "Is John there?"

"Uh, he moved in with the person he's been seeing," she replied.

"Ooooooohhhhhh," I said. "And what's that person's name?"

"Bob."

'Nuff said.

Of course, I'm not the only one who's been dumped and lived to tell about it. Take Helen, who found a note from her fiance on their wedding day. It was under her windshield wiper. It explained that he'd be flying to the Bahamas to "sort things out" instead of marrying her.

Then there was Jodie, whose boyfriend explained he was dumping her because he was ready to find a wife and settle down, and Jodie wasn't "wife material."

It goes the other way, too. Ron's girlfriend dumped him by throwing a Mason jar full of pennies at his head. "See what you made me do!" she screamed.

The point of all this, I'd tell Al's soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend, is that even someone who has been painfully dumped can end up with a happy life. Maybe, like me, she'll end up laughing about it someday.

That is, if her HMO covers therapy.

~Heidi Nieland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian who lives in Pensacola, Fla.