On the Mend : How Do You Repair a Broken Heart When You Aren’t Sure When the Injury Occurred? Well, You Could Try Ice Cream . . .

Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned heartbreak?

You know, the howling, 20 Kleenex kind?

Remember how it used to be? You’d sweep down a huge, red, velvet-covered staircase in a black ball gown, looking beautifully frail. The room is crowded with rugged Southern men. . . .

And in the middle stands him with someone’s sweet-but-plain young cousin--a pawn, really, in this whole affair--on his arm. He bids you a civil goodby (music up, briefly) and then, without so much as a look backward, he hefts her onto his horse and they ride, ride, ride to Atlanta, leaving you only with his secret letters . . . and memories of one golden summer.

Fast forward to the ‘90s. Nowadays, unfortunately, heartbreak isn’t nearly so cinematic or clear-cut.

In the old days, you knew exactly when and why your heart was broken and how to fix it.

These days, it’s a lot harder because modern “relationships” are often so formless, so ineffable that there isn’t an actual breakup “moment” on which to focus one’s grief.

Rather than the decisive phone call or the Dear John/Jane Letter, many modern relationships undergo a gradual deflation. In this era of dual careers, dual Rolodexes and fax machines, quality time is whittled down to a quick cappuccino or perhaps 20 minutes on the Lifecycle, tossing back your heads and laughing hilariously together.

See how easy it is to go from that to nothing?

You might not even know your heart has been broken until five months after the fact when the first tentative shoot of worry appears.

“Hmmmmm,” you might say to yourself in May, “did he ever get back from Christmas vacation?”

There’s no music, no dramatic backlighting, no curving staircase, no anything.

Rather, you’re standing alone in your apartment before that unblinking answering machine as unbidden feelings of failure, pain, nausea wash over you. Then it gradually occurs to you, the same way it probably occurred to Ms. O’Hara: The object of your fatal attraction has decided pigs will fly before you ever share a meal again.

Or, as cartoonist Matt Groening put it: “Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come.”

So how do you mend a broken heart in these shallow and emotionally frail times when the heartfelt commitment of yore is gone with the wind?

In the old days, you would have hurled a few vases. In the not-so-old days, you’d have a few bottles of wine (no longer acceptable) or chain-smoke filterless Camels (definitely declasse).

But even in the ‘90s, there are several ways--some old, some new--to put your heart back together again:

The Laid-Back Route:

In the ‘90s, you relaaaaaaaax.

It’s easy to forget your rage at being left in the rain because you are trying to master “systems.” These cousins of Zen require extraordinary concentration and a lot of endless, repetitive mental exercises.

You repeat these things out loud to yourself, little mantras that emphasize your self-worth: “I pledge solidarity with myself. I will not leave me.” You look around furtively to see if anyone is watching you.

The Get Back at ‘Em Route:

Write a kiss-and-tell book revealing that he/she doesn’t know how to kiss.

Go on Oprah and tell how he/she doesn’t know how to kiss.

Become one with Glenn Close in your white dress, clutching “Madame Butterfly” tickets and shattering window panes in order to get into Michael Douglas’ house.

Call Marvin Mitchelson.

The Self-Indulgent Route:

Eat foods high in everything except nutrition. Especially ice cream out of the container, chocolate by the pound, a Slimfast shake with ice cream, peanut butter and honey, M&Ms; and pastrami, salami and other meats not found in nature.

Don’t get out of bed until the clock hits double digits.

Take up residence in the Beverly Center.

The Travel Route:

A wild spree with Club Med is an act you’re almost sure to regret. They play that game where the women roll over the men as they lie belly up on the sand. You’re desperate, but is this the answer?

The Book Route:

The truly ‘90s person can only do one thing: Take a trip to the “Self Help” section at the local bookstore. It’ll provide a great five-minute lesson on Love. And Life.

Affordably priced $4.95 paperbacks will come tumbling off the shelves on how to cure disappointments of all kinds--along with a few on how to make money quickly through real estate. You’ll find the titles instantly arresting: “Notes to Myself: On Becoming a Person,” “The Dance of Anger” and, of course, that perennial family favorite, “When Helping You Hurts Me.”

Those who see a broken heart on a transcendental plane can choose books penned by Episcopalian ministers or Dalai Lamas, with Kahlil Gibran quotes and a cover photograph of a butterfly on a flower.

The Cathartic Route:

Organize and clean.

Perfect a mini-shrine to the person who dumped you: restaurant stubs, phone message slips with his/her name on it.

Reread “Linda Goodman’s Love Signs” to see how the relationship was fated to go wrong.

Windex each individual key on your computer keyboard.

Throw yourself into a meaningless relationship with someone you found at the Red Onion in Marina del Rey . . . only to find out his favorite film is “Gone With the Wind.”