I am still exhausted from all the questions about his last divorce. Yes, I know that you think my bridge group ladies are merely sympathetic do-gooders, but let me tell you—things are not what they seem! New gossip makes them salivate. When I announced that my former daughter-in-law and son were splitting, they could hardly choke down the lemon bars quick enough to start the bantering, their neck waddles quivering with anticipation to hear the next episode in the soap opera. Even the people in my weekly group therapy sessions want to know who my son is “banging” and if his new girlfriend is “pure trash.” (What kind of New Age talk is this? I don’t feel well.)
As a mother who gave up everything for my Precious One, I ask myself what I did to deserve this. His escapades with all you women have cost me countless emotional breakdowns. Night after night, I dream I am a poodle in a room of pit bulls, all of your rabid mothers encircling me. “Your son better be good to my daughter,” one howls. At this, the rest bare their jowls, poised and ready to tear at my flesh.
When I think of my son spending holidays with your Duck Dynasty when he could be with his mother at Downton Abbey and my cultured clan, I can hardly bear it. But go ahead, I can’t stop you from taking control.
Although your calculated and covert maneuvers may have reeled in my foolish offspring, I refuse to be duped. When we engage in our obligatory encounters, just know that my aging eyes see you for what you are—a Queen Bee luring suitors into your hive. My son just happened to fly too close to your throne.
To be continued, I’m sure,
Your “Last”Mother-in-Law... Ha!
Do we have to talk about the Exes? Why does someone always have to ask about the Last Wife? “Have you ever met Her? What is She like? How long have they been divorced?” If the Former Wife has passed, the questions are even more intrusive: “What did She look like? How long ago did She die? Did She have a tragic disease?” In the case of divorce, it’s no holds barred: “So, how hideous was She anyway? The questions keep spilling over you like a hostess accidentally dropping a glass of wine at dinner. As a Last Wife, I am offering a suggestion to Last Wives everywhere: wear dark colors because you will get spilled on.
As the soon-to-be Last Wife, you are like Paris Hilton at New York Fashion Week—you know you are the Princess of the moment. Hold on tight. You are about to enter insecurity hell! One day, the Love of Your Life utters an innocuous compliment about his Last Fabulous One and having loved her coffee cake. This He happens to mention over the runny egg breakfast that you woke at 6:00 a.m. in order to serve him. And you are not a morning person. How dare He not be appreciative of your Herculean efforts!
What about all the dinners you endure in order to bond with their old friends? The $100 bottle of vino your Lover orders to take the edge off doesn’t quell the banter between the odd couple sitting next to you and your team.
Your small donation to his psyche looks like Mt. Everest in comparison.
“Remember when we all went golfing in Pebble Beach?” the man mentions, recalling times gone by with the last, Last Wife and your Beloved. “She is a great golfer.” Oblivious, his wife throws in, “You two looked so cute in the golf cart. Are you still playing?”
You scowl your displeasure. This is getting old fast.
When they suggest the two of you go out to play this Sunday, you smile and silently recall the last time you played golf and your supreme concern about the mating squirrels on the green. Your laughable tee off can turn even the most empathetic teammates into laughing hyenas. The Ex wins again—your handicap is close to your age and Hers is nearly negligible. Oh well, at least golf is not that important to your new Last Love.
What about all the dinners you endure in order to bond with their old friends?
The worst night of your life is the one when you ran into Her and Her new hunk and watched your Sweetest Thing turn into a tortured mass of nerves. He could hardly utter an introduction. “Hello,” she purred like a satisfied kitten. And you? Your throat tightened so quickly that you could barely get a sip of water to trickle down.
“Hi,” you finally squeaked, feeling every bit the insecure, worthless, and unaccomplished Woman now in his life.
Take heart, She is not coming back for at least two reasons. One, take a look at the Newbie’s rippled pecs straining against his tee shirt. She has moved on, emphasized by how the Ferrari roared as they split the scene—their sexual chemistry leaving lasting impressions of yet another Sunday afternoon in a heated series of yoga poses. The other reason? Your Man could no longer stand her perfection. His feelings of ultimate inadequacy are good for you. Your small donation to his psyche looks like Mt. Everest in comparison. He can quickly get used to your charity. Take heart, Mother Teresa, you are in a good place!
How did I get here? What happened to the fairytale dreams, and why is my Prince Charming taking me to the WWF wrestling match instead of the ball? My carriage turned out to be a 12-year-old Dodge Ram with peeling paint and tobacco stains down the driver’s side door! Instead of protecting my dainty slippers from the mud holes with his velvet cloak, Prince Charming’s Ram now barrels in to the nearest Dairy Queen on date night and He says, “Well, what are you waiting for? Jump out!”
What does a girl do when she’s stressed and having a bad day? She goes shopping! Ah, the mere mention of the rustling tissue paper enveloping a tulle frock can send your happiness meter soaring and salvage your long-awaited nirvana. You breeze into the nearest Macy’s, hoping to clothe yourself in a newly purchased layer of chiffon, which resembles the icing on a celebration cake. After all, spring is right around the corner.
Alas, the size 6 that you made sure zipped off easily during your courtship has somehow shrunk! Those darn designers, do they all use Victoria Beckham for their muse? you wonder. Resigned to the fact that Cinderella cannot be seen in a size 12 (even if it feels so comfy), you must then decide shoes are the real anecdote for anxiety. Even Victoria couldn’t get by on a size zero at the Nordstroms shoe rack, you assure yourself.
Is that rippling of your thighs from the body blows you took during the courtship?
Taking the elevator to the ground floor, you eye the latest Jimmy Choo stilettos. Surely when He sees you strutting in these babies, He will trade in the Ram for the Jag you’ve been wanting. You pick out a few pairs, averting your eyes from the prices marked. New shoes may be the answer, but you have serious questions as you try to pry your newly formed, webbed tennis toes into the sharp points. Have Cinderella’s toes grown longer, or has the conspiracy of toppling her dynasty spread to Nordstrom corporate?
By now your feet are killing you and you’re thinking maybe Spanx can solve your issues. When He sees you looking svelte in your non-forgiving size 10 and your swollen ankles swaying under the weight of your expanded torso, He will once again be blinded by the old you, right? Riiiiight. As you struggle breathlessly from fighting the body armor, you glance in the mirror and are suddenly seized with terror. Is that rippling of your thighs from the body blows you took during the courtship? Or, God forbid, does Cinderella have that much cellulite?
· EPILOGUE ·
SILVER LININGS
Some of my musings are from personal experience. Others were shared by acquaintances. But in the end, life is a journey for all of us that holds some highs, some lows, and lots of mundane times. I know the horror of cancer. Others I know have experienced the desperation of drug abuse or an unexpected death. However, one thing we all have in common is that time moves forward if life continues.
My first 60 years were filled with drama, exhilaration and regret. It appears my journey for the next 30 years will be lived in a lovely silver lining of excitement, peace and tranquility. I am immensely grateful to my husband, Herb Weitzman, for providing my beautiful silver lining.
Our marriage added Herb’s lovely daughters and their precious girls to my immediate family. It also blessed me with a cadre of interesting extended family members. Unfortunately, emotional growth isn’t automatic, and I
was wrong to expect instant acceptance from my new family members. At times, I have been unfair and quick to judge their motives and behaviors. Fortunately, my training as a counselor forced me to remember the value of patience, admit my mistakes, and continue my search for balanced, rational behavior. My efforts are paying off. I’m becoming the woman I want to be, and I know Herb’s commitment to me, our love, and our marriage is an essential part of my journey.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Donna Arp Weitzman is a wife, mother, and businesswoman who enjoys writing and a good pair of Manolo Blahniks. She and her husband live in Dallas, Texas.
Donna has been blessed by her success as a businesswoman, but nothing compares to being married and the proud mother of two Southern gentlemen, Brandon and Collin, who love their families and are successful in their own right.
She has extensive experience in the classroom and the boardroom, earning her BSE and MSE in Counseling from Midwestern State University, as well as completing the Harvard Business School OPM Management Program. Donna has served as a mayor and leader in local city government and continues to serve the greater Dallas community she loves in a variety of civic and cultural roles.
However, it’s the lessons Donna has learned in the school of life that she most wants to share with others. Cinderella Has Cellulite is Donna’s first book, and her writing has previously been published as a columnist for The News and Times, Tri-Cities, owned by The Dallas Morning News. As a frequent public speaker, she enjoys making others laugh and opening their eyes to a new perspective on some of life’s most challenging experiences.
She married her husband, Herb, in 2012 and they enjoy traveling together and spending time with family and friends.
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