NOT WORRIED. Just...tired- like a disillusioned youth sans emo.

The Yankees are a mess.

This news, of course, is about as breaking as Britney's bun in the oven. But what IS stop-the-presses noteworthy is that the fans- who have thusfar been desperately clinging to a battle cry of "The season's young!"- are beginning to slowly and listlessly accept this immobilizing truth. That our team, our revered immortal pinstripes, the apple of the eye of the Big Apple, the essence of my being and the blood running through my veins...is a mess.

And when I say "mess," I mean I've see fraternity basements on a Sunday morning look better than this.

The Yankees, their cesspool of unanswered paychecks, and their sputtering engine are, quite simply, breaking my heart. And before I launch into the Anatomy of the Nosedive Worse Than That of Goose, the top signs the Yanks have propelled me into desolation...

--I watched America's Next Top Model on Wednesday. While a game was going on. Moreover, one girl's 12-pound weight gain was more riveting than said game.

--The maintenance men in my office building heckle me every morning I come in wearing my Yankee jacket. (What's worse is the fact they jumped down my throat when I didn't wear it one day, so now whether it's 80 degrees out or snowing, I have to wear that damn windbreaker to prove my team loyalty. To the maintenance men.)

--After winning a 15-2 softball game, a friend whose knowledge of baseball is limited to the fact it involves a bat, said, "Well, at least you have one team in your life that can score."

--I used to get mauled when I went out to bars with my hat on. ("Yankees suck! You suck! Buy their team! A-rod's gay! Stupid Jeter!" etc etc ad naseum infinitum.) Now I get pity drinks.

--Hideki is sporting the lowest batting average on me and my sister's fantasy teams. My sister's boyfriend is begging her to trade him for Shea Hillenbrand. They fight about this.

--Are the Red Sox still a Major League team? I haven't heard one word about them in weeks. I guess when Tampa Bay is banging out double-digit runs against us, we have bigger problems to tender.

If I wanted this kind of aggravation, I'd have thrown my energies into the Knicks.

Now here's how it is. I feel the same way I did in high school when I had to watch this Spanish soap opera "Destinos" for class. I would sit through class technically watching this bizarre drama, but my eyes would glaze over. I had no idea what was going on. Then I figured if I just dialed in and concentrated on it, I could understand enough of the dialogue to make heads or tails of the plot. But no. Even when I mustered up all the Spanish fluency I had in me, the show still was more indecipherable than "Vanilla Sky."

The Yankees are playing in a different language. And something is clearly getting lost in the translation because even when Steinbrenner authoritatively identifies the "real problem with the club," the team is still playing like they are experiencing an existential crisis, are stoned, or think they're all tenured college professors, just going through the motions of showing up to class.

Most Yankee fans are apopletic. Spitting nails. I wish I could endorse this kind of fervent emotion. But since I have never and will never be able to bring myself to this violent aversion, I'm just quietly discouraged. Like how the father in "The Wonder Years" would yell and scream when he got upset with little Kevin Arnold, but the real blow was when the normally reserved mother would deadpan, "You've just really disappointed us."

And like those doting parents, I only say all this because I care. I don't feel as though I'm betraying my team, but since they so severely govern my life, I feel like a part of me is disintegrating away with them. (Mom's sidebar: "God. You need a boyfriend. Or at least a hobby.")

As much as it pains me, I'm acting like someone who just found out she has a rare and incurable disease: reading everything I can get my hands on for answers, even it means uncovering a horrifying truth. And despite this somewhat manic research, I can't find a single sports writer who can explain this Bronx Bombing with any degree of lucidity.

The pitching? How much can you really say about Randy, Pavano, and Mussina? They're not dominating, but despite bad games, it's a safe bet that they'll ultimately slip back into place. (Mussina was shaky at the beginning of last year, too, but his ERA in September and October was just anemic.)

The hitting? What is there to say about a line-up boasting Sheffield, A-Rod, Jeter, Matsui, and Tino? We're trotting out a roster littered with future Hall-of-Famers, but we're either scoring 329 runs off David Wells or letting BARRY ZITO keep us to 3. Mind-boggling. I'd have an easier time making sense of organic chemistry,

Every team's got their weak links. But we're the only team in dead last.

And I'm still trying to get my head around why Bernie's arm has won the honor of being Scapegoat-of-the-Week. Last I checked, we weren't losing any games because the ball is dribbling to home plate.

In fact, last I checked, we were losing games because Posada was throwing to an unmanned 2nd base. Or our farm pitchers were tossing out the batter instead of the lead runner. Or our infielders were bobbling routine double-plays. Dropped pop-ups. Erratic base-running. Icy slumps. Poorly aimed throws.

We don't need to re-rack our line-up. We need a Little League Baseball Clinic.

And that right there is the reason that I'm left feeling dejected and defeated after every game. While I felt like I got left at the altar after game 7 of last year's ALCS, this is exponentially worse. At the risk of sounding like a 3rd-round losing college basketball coach, the Sox just out-played us. I could get past the famed collapse/choke/Yankee-hater Utopia because it was just a tough loss at an inopportune time. To put it lightly.

I'm not writing them out of the playoffs like certain ESPN writers, because despite the blitz of "last start this bad..." statistics, last year demonstrated that stats are Page-A-Day Calendar fodder and not steel prophecies.

But this here is sheer pain. Cringing. Sometimes tears. To borrow another page from the Bible of Go-to Sports Cliches, they don't look like a team. They look like the walking embodiments of everything Yankee-Haters purport.

And it's killing me one loss at a time.

But in these trying times, it is important to put a positive spin on everything. So maybe it's better to die this way, rather than via the mass homicide that will ensue should the Boss's pony not win the Kentucky Derby.

I'm putting 12-1 odds on him blaming the bullpen.