Pearls of Wisdom: Not that innocent: 25 years of love, life and lyrics

Britney Spears’ ongoing tragic media blitz confirmed what I began to suspect several years ago: after nearly a quarter of a century of leading virtually identical lives, my former twin and I have gone our separate ways. Yet, despite the incidents and accidents leading up to this week’s revolving rehab door, the definitive reality comes as quite a shock to both of us, and we’re still trying to make sense of just how we ended up here. Perhaps a timeline will help.

December 2, 1981: Britney Jean Spears is born in McComb, Mississippi. Exactly six months and twenty-eight days later, Lisa Anne Mendelman is born in Seattle, Washington. Our parallel paths begin.

1986-1990: In addition to performing in her local Baptist church choir, Britney excels in gymnastics and enters numerous state-level competitions. In addition to performing in Seattle’s Northwest Girlchoir (whose Christmas concerts include a token Hanukkah song), I excel on the mats at Gymboree and spend many hours doing cartwheels and somersaults.

1992: Britney makes her “Star Search” television debut and loses in the second round. I audition for the role of the Doormouse in the fifth grade play, “Alice in Wonderland,” and make it to callbacks. Britney picks herself up and auditions for the Disney Channel. I pick myself up and accept the role of the Four of Hearts.

1993-1994: Britney joins the “New Mickey Mouse Club,” where she performs alongside future pop stars Justin Timberlake and Christina Aguilera and actor Ryan Gosling, who is definitely much cuter now.

Born and raised without a TV, I turn to live theater instead, performing in the Bala Cynwyd Middle School productions of “The Pajama Game,” “Romeo and Juliet,” “Once Upon a Mattress,” and “How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.” My costars include future bankers, lawyers and “Real World: Chicago” drama queen Aneesa Ferriera, who was even more unpleasant in seventh grade.

1996-1998: Autumn goodbyes. Britney abandons the all-girl teeny-bopper group Innosense, makes a demo tape, and somehow, someway, ends up touring with *NSync (as they say in the business, it’s all about who you know — and who you’re sleeping with). I abandon the East Coast, make tracks to California, and somehow, someway, end up at Palo Alto High School (as they say in public school, it’s all about who your parents are — and where you live).

1998-1999: Britney’s single, “… Baby One More Time,” debuts on the pop charts, hits number one in the US and elsewhere, and leads to Britney’s first male-fantasy-inspiring, debatably-implant-free “Rolling Stone” cover. My column, “Love, Life, and Lisa,” debuts in Palo Alto High School’s “The Campanile,” creates an occasional stir among my friends, and leads to my first career-related fantasy: becoming a newspaper columnist.

2000: Oops!… Britney does it again (even our grammatical tendencies overlap, though she prefers ellipses while I privilege parentheses). Following Britney’s second national tour (where, at Shoreline Amphitheater, our paths come within a hundred feet of intersection), her mother generously co-authors her best-selling book, “Britney Spears’ Heart-to-Heart,” while my mother dutifully proofreads every essay I write for my English classes.

During a performance at the 2000 MTV Video Music Awards, Britney rips off a black suit to reveal a provocative nude-colored and crystal-adorned outfit. During my senior prom, my mother receives a phone call from my English teacher who informs her that I am literally falling out of my black strapless prom dress. Is it my fault that Britney got all of the cleavage?

2002: Our sophomore slump. “Crossroads,” Britney’s film debut, fails at the box office (despite the opening day attendance of myself, my four friends, and three sketchy middle-aged men). “The Real World: Stanford,” my Stanford stage debut, fails to prevent hundreds of freshmen from consuming alcohol.

Britney and Justin break up and she declines to answer questions about her virginity (though she says she thought he was the one). My first Stanford relationship ends after three weeks and I happily discuss the intimate details with all of my girl friends (and most anyone who will listen).

2003: Not a girl, not yet a woman. Britney admits she slept with Justin two years into their relationship. I admit I still sleep with my Teddy bear, Minty (who, for the record, still shares my bed).

2004: A banner year for both of us. Las Vegas hosts Britney’s alcohol-infused 55-hour marriage and my alcohol-infused 48-hour Memorial Day weekend. I earn my BA; Britney earns her (second) MRS. Within weeks of marriage to KFed, Britney announces her desire to start a family. Within weeks of graduation from Stanford, I announce my desire to move out of my parents’ house.

2005: Our paths diverge. Britney takes a career break and has her first child. I enter the working world and decide not to have children for at least 10 years.

2006: Footloose and panty-free. The paparazzi snap with glee as Britney drives with her son on her lap, nearly drops him, and, following her second pregnancy and divorce announcement, heads out on the town with new friend Paris Hilton. The tabloids buzz with titillation.

My ninth grade students gossip with glee as I bring a male date to winter formal, dance with him from a safe distance of five feet, and borrow his jacket when we walk outside. The faculty room on Monday morning hums with excitement.

2007: After weeks of publicity surrounding late-night partying, alcohol, and possible drug use, Britney shaves her head (the remnants of which are currently for sale online), gets several new tattoos, and checks herself in and out of her second rehab facility in under a week.
After weeks of going to bed before 11, sipping the occasional white wine spritzer, and taking Vitamin C to stave off a cold, I get a half-inch trim (the remnants of which were thrown out within minutes) and finish my column within hours of my deadline. Fortunately, if Brit has taught me anything over the past 25 years, it’s that, sometimes, we’re stronger on our own.

If you’re feeling crazy, lucky, lonely or overprotected, email my heart at lisame@stanford.edu.