Dear Sex and the City,

So this is it, huh?

After six years, you just up and leave, without so much as a goodbye. You dog.

Our relationship began like any good romance. We were both young, fresh, reasonably attractive. You embraced me completely with your frankness and sense of humor.

"Welcome to the age of un-innocence," you said. "Self-protection and 'closing the deal' are paramount. Cupid has flown the co-op."

I knew then we were in for a wild ride. One filled with puns and semi-witty plays on literature, but a wild ride nonetheless.

I'd have to say those first few seasons together were the best.

Sure, you were all Manhattan, and I was all Cincinnati. You were Jimmy Choo; I was Designer Shoe Warehouse. You were trendy eateries; I was Anchor Grill.

But you were real then. Honest. Compassionate.

It didn't take long for you to become my family. You were the mother who doled out heaping spoonfuls of warmth and advice. You were the older sister who sat cross-legged on my bed and dished about boys and sex and shoes. You were the little brother who teased me, made me laugh until my sides hurt.

Most of all, you were the father with the permanently pointed finger, chiding me for getting trapped in bad relationships. You told me being alone was more satisfying than being with someone not worthy of me.

Sometimes you were brutal. Sometimes you were tactless. But you always reflected the truth as sharply as if I was staring in a mirror.

Then we hit turbulence.

There was a baby. A Park Avenue apartment. Outfits that cost more than my salary. I couldn't relate anymore.

You were condescending. Pretentious. You became a caricature of yourself, like Corey Feldman or something.

Our fairy tale romance promptly ended. Now we were like one of those bad, overstocked Danielle Steele novels on the bookstore bargain table.

I wanted to yell, "What happened to the Sex and the City I once knew?" But we were already moving in different directions.

Sometimes I felt obliged to see you. I smiled and tittered, but my heart wasn't in it. You were such a habit, though, I couldn't completely walk away.

And then you decided to walk away from me, last Sunday. First off, I'm mad. Do you know how much I hate being the dumpee when I should have been the dumper?

But mostly I'm sad. And it's not just about the love or the adventures or the fashion.

It's losing your friendship that makes me feel empty.

No more brunch with the girls. No more sympathy about breaking wind in front of a boyfriend. No more snacking and watching the neighbors do it.

Please come back. Sometimes these things can work, flaws and all. Besides, you're the one who once said, "Practically all the relationships I know are based on a foundation of lies and mutually accepted delusion."

Maybe you could give me just one more chance. A full-length feature film, maybe. Or even a made-for-TV thing, like A Very Brady Christmas.

No? Wait. Before you go, I just have one last question.

Was it good for you, too?

Love,

Maggie

E-mail mdowns@enquirer.com