Columnist Melissa Schorr: Fretting over the future of Miss Monica

Obstruction of justice, impeachment proceedings, the moral decay of the country. Feh.

Sometimes, I'd rather worry about the little things.

Like whether Yasser Arafat was irked to find out why he was kept waiting quite so long for Clinton in the Rose Garden.

Like whether Chelsea will ever apply for an summer internship.

But mainly I wonder whatever is to become of Miss Monica after the depositions settle.

Will the woman whose name is now a smarmy synonym for a sex act ever be able to find true love? Career satisfaction? Inner peace?

No one else I know seems to be sparing any time worrying about poor Monica's future, figuring she's getting exactly what she deserves.

"Oh, she'll write a tell-all book, make a million dollars, lose 30 pounds, pose for Playboy and end up marrying some millionaire," sniffs a friend of mine, a female law student.

But so far, Monica has not publicly finalized any of her reported offers, which include to date: a million-dollar pen-all, a girlie mag spread, a model's stroll down the catwalk, a part on a daytime soap or an appearance on "The Oprah Winfrey Show."

Even if she does profit nicely, there are still many, many working hours for a 25-year-old to fill before retirement at age 65 -- 80,000, to be exact (believe me, I've counted).

Short of starting a new life under the Witness Protection Program, Monica's employment prospects look dim.

Picture her resume. Prior work experience: Personal shopping. Testifying before grand juries. Skills: Oral. References: Ken Starr.

Her predecessors haven't exactly rocketed up the career ladder: Gennifer Flowers aspires to be a Vegas lounge act; Donna Rice is, ironically, a public relations flack.

As for Monica's chances of ever finding true love?

"She's a tramp who brought it all upon herself," a pragmatic Young Republican tells me. "She'll probably just find guys who want to be with her to say they were with the girl who was with the president."

Sad but true.

Like a millionaire or celebrity's child (like Chelsea, for that matter), Monica may never know if a potential beau is really interested in her -- or just looking to fondle fame.

But what worries me most is her psyche. Already portrayed as a woman with a desperate need for love (why else pose for a Vanity Fair worship-me pictorial? Why else befriend Linda Tripp?), Monica's self-esteem is probably in worse shape than her reputation.

Despite her Playboy-ready resume, the woman who could be Hef's has basically been portrayed as a heifer.

Monica has been belittled nightly, publicly, internationally, on the airwaves.

"What man hasn't lied about having sex with a fat chick?" joked the late-night comics.

"Question: What part of Monica's body did Clinton most enjoy looking at? Answer: The top of her head," quipped the websites.

But let's get real here. Monica is not deformed. Monica is far from hideous. If she were one of my gal pals, she'd fit in perfectly fine. She wouldn't be the best looking (ahem, naturally), nor would she be the worst.

Her real beauty faux pas? Having her image beamed onto our television screens, where we expect -- no, demand -- only to see the pretty people playing.

We expected the President's Choice to be more Miss Pamela Lee, less Miss Lewinsky. But whose visuals would hold up under that media glare? Would yours?

At least Flowers was trashed as a bimbo, and got to make a comeback as a babe.

Monica got dubbed nothing much to look at -- and now, I fear, she's got nothing much to look forward to, either.

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