Cinderella Has Cellulite

by Donna Arp Weitzman

  “Honey, I won’t stand in your way if you want to work. I know how much your independence means to you!”

  “You’ll see, Darling,” you assure him, “being the Kept One is fun.” His days of suffering are over (except for the torturous dinners with Daddy). Your Darling will no longer have to sport around town in a Ford Escort. You will clean him up like Carson, the butler, in Downton Abbey.

  Your Beloved’s job is so easy. Just say wonderful things about you and your family, never share a family secret, wait on you hand and foot and always remember your money is the boss. As the Last Wife, you must always be fair!

  Of course, your Intended might simply be among the other 99 percent in America. Even if He is a working man, don’t think money is not a part of your Casanova’s psyche. Although your Romeo did not ask Juliet for a “ties that bind” prenuptial contract, you can believe that He is still concerned about money. Or his lack thereof.

  As the Last Wife, you must always be fair!

  As He sees it, once you are installed in his abode, you could become Ms. Paycheck, even though his birth name is not even similar to Johnny’s, nor does He enthrall you with his country ballads. Shrewdly, He says to you, “Honey, I won’t stand in your way if you want to work. I know how much your independence means to you!”

  What a man, He is always putting you first!

  Take note when your welcome home kiss from him gets less passionate by the day.

  The actor Mae West once said, “Love conquers all, except poverty and a toothache!” The Last Wife can sometimes be the last best chance for the devious Interloper. Look for telltale signs that your Prince is not planning to shower you with fancy bobbles or to become your ticket to a paid-up MasterCard. Has He helpfully suggested that He should be added as an approved user on your card? This is the mark of the crafty Looker who wears the Armani blazer borrowed from his hard-working high school buddy. He promises to return it when his finances improve, meaning when your bank changes your checking to a joint account.

  In the frenzy of emotions, you may nod your head and declare, “I don’t care about money—our love is deeper than that!” You love your job and are convinced He will soon find something that is up to his level.

  Keep your poster of Gloria Steinem near your desk because that is where you will be chained as your Man-child is enjoying daily three-hour lunches at the local bar searching the want ads. Take note when your welcome-home kiss from him gets less passionate by the day. He is already dreading your nightly chats.

  “Love conquers all, except poverty and a toothache!”

  “How was your day?” you ask as you set down your briefcase. “Did you find anything?”

  Quick! What is my excuse today? He panics. The witch never gives up! I want my mommy!

  If your daddy made sure that you can have any man you want without worrying the trust fund manager, you have a decision to make. Like the business icon determining if his new Last Wife is worth the prenup costs, you will sooner or later be forced to consider your potential partner’s value to you. If your heart is overcome by the warmth of his embrace, you will be more than happy to finance his well-being (including his new Armani blazer). The feminists were right: having the money does give you the power!

  If your birth certificate affirms more than three decades behind you, the issue of plastic surgery and other maintenance requirements is likely paramount in your life. You have an urgent need-to-know about how to handle it!

  Perhaps regular touch-ups at Dr. Look Good have resulted in your eternally rested facial expressions. Or maybe the scars you are hiding resemble mementos from a fierce battle in a smoky Mexican cantina. Either scenario piques the interest of his eager-to-know relatives. During short interchanges at his Thanksgiving dinner, his cousin (still wearing flesh-colored bandages from her eye lift) squints at your ears. She deftly brings up Aunt Myrtle’s hatchet job from several decades ago and asks, “Don’t you think plastic surgery has gotten so much better?”

  You are on to this clandestine scheme. But, you realize, I am going to have a hard time feigning my natural look.

  While sidling up to the holiday buffet, his brother sneaks a peak at your perfected décolleté straining against your silk blouse and suddenly bolts for the bathroom looking for his nitroglycerin tablets. Terrified of having yet another angina attack, he pops his pills and silently worries, This woman may kill me!

  . . . if He is a wonderful person and full of love, so what if He is a little maimed?

  Should you fess up to your Beloved? “Darling, I’ve had a little work. No one knows, but I want to be totally honest with you. You probably wouldn’t have noticed as it didn’t change me that much . . . ”

  Note that you should squint hard while you are confessing so you can spot any telltale scars around his ears. Run your hands through his hair to inspect any remnants of a toupee, paying close attention to any little bumps signifying implant rows. Moving right along, scrutinize his teeth for any clacking or movement, ugly black blobs signaling neglected dental visits or badly matched implants. Inspect him like a jockey inspects his steed at the Kentucky Derby. After all, you want a sturdy horse and a smooth ride to the Winner’s Circle.

  Terrified of having yet another angina attack, he pops his pills and silently worries, This woman may kill me!

  Feel no shame, Inspector Clouseau. You can bet He is ogling every inch of your body, too. Odds are your brazen Womanizer is carefully comparing you to his last conquest. So, if you’ve gone from small apples to large cantaloupes, and your Honey is eyeballing those perfect Cs, it might be time for you to come clean. Even though you might feel a bit squeamish telling him of your time under the knife, if He is part of the Big Boobs Boys Club, the bigger the better. It won’t faze him a bit that a man has been there before!

  If you do happen to discover any peculiar scars, scalp conditions, or cavities with your Beloved, your head may want your heart to rethink this. “He is damaged goods!” your brain may signal you. “It will take a small fortune just to keep him in working order.” Your mind may even go to a weird place where you picture the two of you frolicking in bed . . . What if his toupee swerves, or his dentures puncture my Cs? Can you catch cavities? You’ve got decisions to make, but if He is a wonderful person and full of love, so what if He is a little maimed?

  His friends, Her friends, their friends, my friends, our friends, his kids’ friends, your kids’ friends . . . in a blended family, friends never end! Of course, they have your best interest in mind. They form early and instant opinions of your new relationship, which simply validates the old adage that opinions are like armpits—everybody has one.

  Let’s start with Her Friends. Here they come—many times in cloak and dagger. It is not just the gal pals who can inflict pain; the men involved can be just as sinister. Just when you think you are looking like a 10, they proceed to tell you about Her lovely eyes, Her kind manner or how She was a lively conversationalist. You are stopped dead in your stilettos as you half-listen to their recollections! But you thought Prince Charming told you she was Godzilla’s older sister, complete with hairy armpits and unshaven legs? Oh, and the cellulite—it was simply unbearable for him.

  Or worse, She may actually have been perfect in every way: wise, gorgeous, and fun. It is amazing to you that your Don Juan could have bagged the Perfect Woman. Regardless of how She got away, the fact remains that She is gone. He feels the loss and you might want to do the same. This may even be your opportunity to let your rearview mirror fog and say, “Hi ho, Silver. I am outta here!”

  You smile and explain how great your Knight in Shining Armor is when suddenly around the aisle of designer dresses comes the Frenemy!

  What about Your Friends? OMG! Do they ever shut up? They pontificate on your New Man every time you are together, wanting answers to their questions. Is He good in bed? What present did He buy you? Does He ever talk about Her? Depending on their mood, they might even chide you, “You could do better . . . ” Or, “You
should bag the sucker, just like She did.”

  His Kids’ Friends may be quick to engage you in conversation if they’re young, but their innocent friendliness might come with a price. While eating a snack you just served, one of them happens to say, “Mrs. Last Wife, Tommy’s mommy could make the best homemade brownies I ever tasted.” You’d like to stuff the dried-out Oreos you bought last week down his lying little throat.

  They pontificate on your New Man every time you are together, wanting answers to their questions.

  “Get outta here kid, this is my house,” you want to say. But is it Her or his house, or theirs? Wow! Am I confused!

  Worse yet, his grown-up kids’ friends are capable of inflicting flesh wounds. They are coming, so be prepared. Here’s a potential scenario. You are innocently shopping in a small boutique near your house. (Or is it his house? Her house? Here we go again . . . ). The store clerk is deftly trying to identify if you are the potential new Last Wife. In that case, she’ll be syrupy sweet as she has missed the commissions from the former Last Wife. You smile and explain how great your Knight in Shining Armor is when suddenly around the aisle of designer dresses comes the Frenemy! Beware, she is the Best Friend of your newly inherited daughter, the one with whom you are attempting to bond without much luck.

  “Oh, so-and-so’s mother was a size 2. I thought you were Her size!”

  Nevertheless, you express delight at seeing her (having hopefully recognized her importance in the pecking order). She throws eye daggers at you, forcefully showing a slit of a tooth intended to suffice as a smile. With a glance at the new dress in your hand, she then lowers the boom. “Oh, so-and-so’s mother was a size 2. I thought you were Her size!”

  The store clerk is deftly trying to identify if you are the potential new Last Wife.

  You hurriedly leave the size-six rack and throw up in the store bathroom. The “perfect brownie” is now lodged in your throat—or is that your psyche?

  “But didn’t Cinderella actually get her Prince Charming in the end?” you ask. Yes, but her glass slippers were cutting into her big toe after her stepmother and stepsisters nearly finished her off, innocently calling it just a healthy bleed.

  What they don’t tell you when you’re a little girl about your fairytale romance is that Cinderella leaves the ball, glass slipper in shards! As the Last Wife . . . second, third, fourth, temporary, or permanent . . . you think you know your number, but believe me your status can change overnight.

  Although you got to go to the ball and even danced with his former brother-in-law, who is still his best friend and bar buddy, beware. Prince Charming can turn into Don Juan while shopping for your first Valentine bouquet.

  One sure sign is if the pricey roses wrapped in swaddling cloth that He used to lay at Cinderella’s feet when you were dating have now turned into carnations inside a made-in-China Kroger discount special. Your 18-carat gold bobble is tarnishing quickly if He doesn’t bother to remove the faded markdown tag blaring, “Goodbye Cinderella.”

  Is He already beginning his thrift plan, saving his dollars for the Next Last Wife? While you are pondering your disappointment with your spindly funeral corsage, keep in mind it could be the precursor to your fall from his grace.

  Prince Charming can turn into Don Juan while shopping for your first Valentine bouquet.

  His master plan may involve saving his money for the next big purchase—another bobble, but not for you. Watch out if at Christmas He craftily suggests to you, “Please don’t get me anything. In fact, I think we should not buy each other gifts. We already know how much we love each other, and, gosh, there is nothing we need. Don’t you agree?”

  In reply, just give him the same amount of tooth in the same fake grin you received from your precious stepchild’s Best Friend as she reminded you of your back fat. This is a bad day in the life of Cinderella!

  OMG! This is dangerous terrain! A brother-in-law can be your ally, especially if you have a good bum he can lightly pinch when his wife or your Beloved is not near. Be assured, he secretly believes he is the one you really dream of every night.

  A dimly lit family dinner with him is always a trip down memory lane. He boasts of his high school athleticism and his cheerleader conquests, all the time wondering how he can scoot his chair close enough to rub your thigh. His wife is disgusted the entire time, rolling her eyes and ignoring his obvious hyperbole. She is too busy being consumed with private thoughts about how she ended up with this fool. To distract herself, she occasionally envisions the raunchy sexcapades you must be having with her brother.

  Never forget, testosterone from the same bloodline can be competitive. Your new almost-brother might be peeved if you still look voluptuous while his ball and chain’s boobs sag like two bags of wet concrete. It is critical that you stay on the other side of the room at family events. Just breeze by him with a slight nod as he assumes his usual place at the head of the buffet line.

  He may even deserve some genuine compliments if he cleared the way for you like Paul Bunyan.

  Some of these types will volunteer to commandeer the bar. Better to skip the libations or risk lewd comments about your new sex life. This man is a dreamer, mostly of you and his brother. Whether his rotund torso greets you as he is pulling up his belt (which has now sunk to knee length), or his breath reeks like your neighbor’s St. Bernard whenever he licks your cheek in a side kiss, he knows he is the real hunk around here. Is that green around his jowls the same sign of envy he suffered when your Stud made the football team and he was only invited to play afterschool badminton?

  On rare occasions, your new brother-in-law can become the strongest member of your Last Wife support group. He has the potential to fully understand the contents of your new family’s dysfunction. If this is the case, lean on him only in the direst situations, as he is likely already exhausted by the unseemly brew. He may even deserve some genuine compliments if he cleared the way for you like Paul Bunyan. If that is the case, invite him to dinner often and go out of your way to have him around during Thanksgiving. Your heart rate will slow when he puts the wayward nephew in his rightful place.

  Dear Next Mother-in-Law,

  We have both been here before. Let me start by saying I am so excited to be in the Last Wife’s position and to be your last daughter-in-law. Now, I don’t expect you to love me. I don’t even expect you to like me. But I do expect that you will always pick out my best attributes when your bridge friends ask how it’s going. Although you may grind your teeth to a point that warrants your dentist’s suggestion of a night guard, and your weekly massages turn into more serious visits to the chiropractor, I expect you to keep your negative opinions to your therapist.

  Being a New Wife, I already have the odds stacked against me. His Perfect Ones (your Grandperfect Ones) are causing me bouts of colitis. My Little Angels are now pining to move in with my Ex, claiming they prefer their father’s new Last Wife’s scowls over our blended family “bliss.” I really don’t expect your sympathy or empathy. The best I can hope for is to receive no grandmother’s recipes, no regifted holiday gifts, and certainly no pictures of you and his Last Wife on the family vacation to Florida. I understand you were close to her. After all, your Perfect One did choose her.

  I see you eyeing me as if picking out the Sunday roast at Whole Foods, only I suspect you believe I’m not nearly so wholesome. I know you are baffled why your son cannot see the truth—namely, that I will age more quickly than him (thanks to your side of the family’s genes). There are so many ways I don’t measure up that you’ve lost count (although I realize Alzheimer’s is out of the question in your family). You’ve silently vowed to do your best to hold your tongue, even when you feel the urge to set me straight—if only to make me love you more in the long run.

  But I am not above begging for your forgiveness. I had no grand scheme to hook him, and I even ignored his flirtatious glances as he cunningly hid his left ring finger the first time we met. I admit I should have been at a
more innocent establishment, and the numerous martini glasses in front of him should have alerted me: This man is on the prowl. Yes, I fell for him after he shared with me his lonely misery and assured me that he is not a deceitful, devious sort but a man desperate for love. Dear Last Mother-in-law, he even told me, “You are just like my mother.” Who could not love that?

  Regardless of the circumstances that got us to this place, we are now forced to coexist. Let’s make peace. I am not a fighter unless my face is smashed into the mat. If the wrestling match gets ugly, I must warn you that in my single years I achieved a black belt in self-defense. My last mother-in-law was a tad bit bigger than you and appeared to be meaner, but God knows the truth will surface when I pin you for another victory!

  With much love,

  Your Last Daughter (in-Law)

  Dear Goldilocks,

  As you are my Baby Bear’s about-to-be Last Wife, I am slightly concerned. No, absolutely horrified. I lie awake at night in a cold sweat (unrelated to my decades-long hot flashes), popping antacids and wondering what kind of debacle my Perfect Darling has ended up in this time.

  I know he thinks you are the One (again) and is willing to jump out of a ship, swim the ocean and forego his relationship with his Perfect Mother (well, we know that last bit isn’t true) just to keep you in the sack. After all, he is a little bit like his father, may he rest in peace, the oversexed oaf.