Defending Bald Britney

Another PU prediction has come true. Britney has officially checked into rehab.

I usually don't care about the self-induced plights of celebrity addicts but I really feel badly for this baldy. She's only 25 years old and has been living out the consequences of a whole slew of ill-advised decisions under the 24/7 media microscope: She married some wigger buffoon and had two kids back to back. Now, she is going through a divorce only months after the birth of her second son. Her career is in the turlette and she's always drunk or high and has been photographed in clubs pantless, acting the way Vito does when he gets around stuffed bunnies and throw pillows. Of course, her problems do not justify her neglecting her two babies (K-Fed is equally guilty, btw) But to rip off Chris Rock: "I ain't sayin' it's right...but I understand."

After having two kids back-to-back, I definitely went a little nuts. And I was 34, not 24. I was riddled with anxiety. I couldn't retain a thought. I couldn't eat or sleep. And I was postpartum in a large way -- I once became unhinged at a local deli when a sandwich I'd ordered arrived smothered in cheese. At the same time -- and this is the wild dichotomy of parenthood -- I was flying high and happy. All of this manic emotion, I now realize, was caused by my hormone-drenched, post-partum brain.

There are plenty of stable adults in this world who approach parenthood with breezy self-confidence and serenity. Then there are those of us who are averse to domestic captivity and prone to rebellion and moments of extreme immaturity. My initial instincts: "Shit! I'm the MOMMA? Are you kidding me? I can't find my shoes. I've killed Chia Pets." I was certain the cops were going to pull us over on the way home from the hospital and confiscate the carseat.

But when you're in this state, you're afraid to voice any comments about your insecurity or uncertainty because you're worried they'll be met with contempt instead of compassion: "Poor you. You have a beautiful family. Boo hoo."

So you stuff the anxiety down (maybe with some Grey Goose martinis) and one day it manifests itself as a massive panic attack on the ride home from NYC. Luckily, the insanity is fleeting: Hormones subside, you get into a groove, you adapt. But you do need help: I had a grounding force (Jimmy) and two other tiny forces (C&P) that compelled me to grow up a little and stop spinning. I also have good friends who would never say BOO HOO to me unless I deserved it. I now know that being a MOMMA doesn't mean distancing yourself from your identity, your life or your friends. (I've seen so many new parents do this but now I realize that they're just lazy).

We still have plans. We still have friends. Fart jokes are still funny. Life is good. BUT -- without a grounding force, I believe ANYONE could end up bald and in rehab. That said, I am pulling for Brit. I hope she emerges from rehab a sober blonde who can't wait to see her sons.