Ending My Affair With Paula Deen

It's over.

Now is the time to confess, to come clean, and beg for absolution.

The truth is, I've been having a secret affair with Paula Deen for years.

How secret?

It was so secret that not even Paula knew.

For me, watching her cook was like food porn.  I'd sneak onto the cooking channels when nobody was home, careful not to get caught, just to catch a glimpse of this voluptuous woman doing naughty things with sticks of butter.

I loved everything about her, from her gorgeous silver hair to her tantalizing southern accent. 

To paraphrase the immortal line from "Jerry Maguire," Paula had me at "today we're going to fry up some chicken, y'all."

Her infectious laugh and sparkling eyes were a vision to behold.  And the woman could sure fill out a smock!

Sadly, the affair ended this week when I saw pictures of her on the cover of a supermarket tabloid.  It wasn't a story about her having a wild weekend fling with Wolfgang Puck, or a jailhouse photo of her after an all night binge at Denny's.

No, it was a full-body photo of her new physique.  Or should I say, a three-quarter-body photo, because there's a big chunk of her missing.

According to the screaming headline, Paula has lost 30 pounds.

If that's true (and it's People magazine, so it HAS to be true), she's lost me as well.

One of the many things I loved about Paula was that she was all woman, a REAL woman.  She was every bit as beautiful as Dolly Parton, but with all original factory-installed equipment instead of being a rebuilt belle with aftermarket parts.  Paula was as God made her, an inspiration among the vapid stick figures who parade across my TV screen with their store-bought breasts and anorexically thin bodies by Jake, Jason, or Jillian. 

Now she's just another Hollywood hottie.  Before, I considered her a perfect 10 (occasionally even an 11, because of her way with pie).  Today, she merely wears a size 10.

I realize that the haters forced her into losing weight because of her diabetes (a malady which was just one more thing we had in common, a part of our bond).  If you believe the TV quacks like Dr. Oz, the weight loss might be healthy.  But as Billy Crystal taught us on Saturday Night Live as Fernando Lamas, it's better to look good than to feel good.  It doesn't matter how you feel, just so you look mahvelous.

Our break-up is not solely about looks.  It's about truth.

How can any man trust a woman who looks you in the eye and prepares scrumptious sweet chicken bacon wraps, while backstage she's nibbling on Greek salad and steamed fish? 

Then you have the issue of children.

Which would make a better mother, the woman who encourages chubby little girls and tells them they are valuable and beautiful no matter what size they are, or the mom who reminds you daily that love only comes to those who stick their fingers down their throats after every meal? 

If you're unsure of the answer to that question, you've never watched an episode of "Keeping Up With The Kardashians," "Living Lohan," or "Toddlers and Tiaras."

So it's over between Paula and I. 

It's time for me to find a new celebrity crush, which will be a bigger challenge than you might think.  After all, how many gorgeous, sweet, plus-size, silver-haired, luscious-voiced southern-talking women do you find on television?

I guess I'll just have to keep my fingers crossed and wait for Kellie Pickler to grow old and see what happens.

In the meantime, maybe I should send her a Betty Crocker cookbook...