SAY IT AIN’T SO, BROOOOOOOCE : This Is the Thanks for 10 Years of Unrequited Loyalty?

Well, Bruce, so it’s come to this.

While I was busy perfecting my three-cushion bank shot, while I was writing our initials in lipstick on the mirror down at the five-and-dime and wondering how I was going to gift-wrap a Hurst gearshift for your birthday, what were you doing?

Getting married ! And not even giving me as much notice as I’d get for an overdue Texaco bill.

That’s gratitude for you. Ten years between us, Bruce. Think of that; I was loyal before you had muscles. Did I abandon you during those dry spells between albums, between concert tours, when even Southside Johnny began to sound good to some girls? Not a chance. Did I have my head turned by someone younger and trendier, like Michael Jackson? Not me. I stuck to you like a sweaty T-shirt.

And this is the thanks I get.

Oh, my mother warned me about guys like you. She told me to watch out, that you’d break my heart the way Frank Sinatra broke hers when he got married--for the first time, I mean.

But I didn’t listen; I believed in you.

What about all those nights I stayed up with you until 1, 2, quarter to 3 in the morning, singing along while you played your guitar? (OK, OK, so there were 15,000 other people there too, but I know who you were singing to.) What about sitting in a ticket line at 4 in the morning, with kids half my age, to make sure you wouldn’t be disappointed by not seeing me at the concert? Oh, I got what was coming to me, all right. Not a ticket. Bronchitis.

So what happened between us, Bruce?

It couldn’t be my age: Every time I hear you sing, I feel 17 all over again, instead of, well, 30-ish.

It couldn’t be my looks: You remember what you told me? “You ain’t a beauty but hey, you’re all right, and that’s all right with me.”

And God knows it couldn’t be me : I can chalk a pool cue with my left hand. I fold my pizza when I eat it. I packed my father’s lunch bucket every day. I once beat the entire swing shift of the Ford Pico Rivera plant at pinball--and I mean real pinball, too, boardwalk pinball, not that electronic crud. And I look great sitting on the hood of a Dodge.

Oh, Bruce, Bruce, where did we go wrong?

I guess it doesn’t matter, now.

But somehow, I figured she’d be different. Not a model. Maybe a spot welder. Not someone you met backstage, but someone in the back row. Not someone among the rich and privileged, but a woman of the people. A woman who knows her way around a carburetor and can make tomato sauce to die for. A woman like me.

You know what the worst part of this is? It’s finding out about all those other women who had designs on you. It’s incredible! You’d think Valentino had died or something--I walk into a ladies’ room and they’re sobbing into paper towels. They’re wearing black armbands. They’re breaking up their albums--even their bootlegs. They’re talking about a posse.

Strange women stop to console each other on the street. They’re casting your horoscope, yours and Julianne’s, to see if it’ll work out. Twenty years from now, they’ll be sitting at the Laundromat, talking about where they were, what they were doing, the day they heard the news that you were getting married.

Not me. I have my dignity.

I’m sure it was a lovely wedding. I’m sure she was a lovely bride. I’m sure you two will be very happy together. I’m sure I can’t keep up this brave front much longer, so . . . goodby, Bruce. Good luck. I’ll drink a toast to you two this weekend. The usual--boilermakers, right?

Oh, and one more thing. My husband says I should send you his heartiest congratulations. He’s learning to play “Born to Run” on his bagpipes.

Morrison is a Times staff writer who has had many editors, but only one Boss.