By MANDY STADTMILLER

July 6, 2008 --

ONE year ago, I was e-mailing Super Preppy with an invite to a swanky penthouse party for July Fourth and nervously dropping $800 at Banana Republic in my attempt to try to find the right "I will make the perfect girlfriend and am hotter than any other woman in Manhattan" outfit.

Today, I don't recognize that person.

Except when I do.

"You look pretty," SP tells me as we sit in his living room, seeing each other for the first time since he's returned from Bermuda.

All I can think about is the long checklist of to-dos that have been completed before seeing him: pedicure, exfoliation, shaving, waxing, lasering, chemical peel, workout, self-tanner.

The list goes on.

And on. And on.

"Thanks," I say, silently chastising myself because I know that I've still not dropped the 5 pounds that I want, and recalling the book idea I once pitched to an editor, only half-kidding: "Welcome to New York, or How You'll Soon Learn to Love Your Eating Disorder."

A joke. Except when it wasn't.

I remember when I first moved here - after a few months of trying to compete - a doctor told me I was pre-anorexic. Combine that with drinking too much - and oh, man, was I a boatload of fun.

I remember one morning after a particularly miserable weekend, I tried to make myself throw up over a toilet and realized yes, I had truly hit rock bottom. I had become an after-school special.

All I needed was to wear a black dress while taking a slow, meaningful "trying to be clean" shower.

Instead, I called one of my dearest friends in the world: Dr. Tom. He's a prestigious Harvard oncologist, and no matter what humiliating thing I tell him, he always manages to make me feel loved and OK and not weird at all.

"Mandy," he said at the end of my story, "you need to get the f - - - out of Dodge."

But I didn't. Instead I just kept trying. Trying, trying and then failing, and then trying again.

You can never succeed at perfect. You will always, always fail.

Super Preppy knows this now. Every terrible, cringe-inducing part.

It's why, after July Fourth last year, when he made a "joke" about my arms being "flabby," I considered ending our dalliance right there. No way was I going to mess around with a guy who needed some perfect chick.

But he doesn't want that. He does, however, want someone who loves herself.

And I'll tell you one thing I do have in spades.

It's the confidence of a size-2 sorority bitch.

So, as we sit on his couch, I compliment SP right back.

"You look very handsome," I tell him as I hug him.

"Aw," he says quietly, "it's nice to see you again."

For a split second I catch my reflection in a picture frame on the wall.

I couldn't agree more.

mstadtmiller@nypost.com

Mandy Stadtmiller: About Last Night Archive