Cinderella Has Cellulite Read online

  “You won’t believe it!” they’ll chirp. “Her ring is the size of a strawberry! Keep your eyes open—your alimony check is in jeopardy. No way can this joker pay you and pay for that ring. Call your lawyer!”

  If, on the other hand, He suggests a crafty strategy like, “Honey, let’s buy matching bands,” the cheap rascal is probably trying to buy you off. What can you say to that without looking as if you really are a scheming gold digger?

  “Okay . . . ” you gulp weakly. This is especially painful if you have already discovered that your True Love mortgaged the farm to buy his Last Wife the Elizabeth Taylor Hope Diamond! Does He just not love you enough? You choke back the tears.

  Upgrading that puppy will be your first order of business.

  Your Sly Lover may even decide that you have no right to determine the 4 Cs of his purchase. The cut is irrelevant in his mind, and clarity, color, and carat weight are not vital to his financing plan. One night, He ceremoniously slips it on your finger during his emotional declaration, “I will love you forever!” You suspect there might be a stone somewhere on the top of your fourth finger, so you feign being overcome by your love for him and slink off to the bathroom where the light is better.

  Does He just not love you enough? You choke back the tears.

  If He thinks this little nothing will do, just wait ‘til after the wedding, you say to yourself. Upgrading that puppy will be your first order of business. Your Saturdays will be spent designing your one-year anniversary ring—that is, if He ever wants to have sex again!

  So, you have taken the road less traveled and fallen for a young and studly Ladykiller, still wet behind the ears and other unmentionable places. My, my, my. How shall you handle this, you wanton Jezebel?

  Every time you jump giggling into bed, knowing this romp has the potential for a half marathon, does the Pope later invade your pleasant dreams with a decidedly disappointed frown? Can you detect his stern admonishment amidst the pleasant sensations still lingering in your head from the last lively session with your tender Beefcake?

  Does the pontiff think you’re much too old for this emerging tot? It’s true—you could be his mother, or at least a much older sibling. You better stop this lustful behavior and repent before your sins of the flesh are too visible to your brethren!

  The Pope is right! you admit, tossing and turning until the morning hours. The only place you can win is when you are cavorting with your budding Adonis. Everywhere you turn, you are screwed (albeit in a different place)!

  Your girlfriends’ frequent trips to the powder room during the breathless descriptions of your bedroom frolics are not due to weakened bladders. They simply need a chance to reapply makeup over the tear tracks. When you confess, “He’s so fit, I don’t think He ever gets tired!” they may smile, but their envy cannot be concealed as they reflect on their Mr. Right waiting for them at home.

  The only place you can win is when you are cavorting with your budding Adonis.

  They may even wonder if your Budding Beast is just simpleminded. Surely He can see her need for Botox, one thinks. Another silently cries, She needs it a lot more than I do. What gives?

  The general, unspoken consensus at your regular 9:00 a.m. Starbucks get-togethers is that you may be his Mrs. Robinson at night, but you’ll be his Maggie May in the harshness of morning. A few Sunday mornings sans dull hangovers and they’re figuring He’ll dump you.

  What is He like? Is He romantic? They are dying to know it all.

  She’ll get what she asked for! they conclude as you naively head to the counter to pick up your skinny latte. Who does she think she is? And yet, you can take heart because even Jimmy Fallon’s monologue won’t be able to distract from their unseemly task of faking yet another orgasm later that night.

  We all dream of the supportive, got-your-back back girlfriends who text and email you constant encouragement and positive vibes. They are the ones who show unwavering interest and curiosity regarding your Lover. What is He like? Is He romantic? They are dying to know it all. If your new conquest doesn’t work out, these YaYa Sisters will be the ones to conduct a séance, mortally wounding him and propelling you into Cupid’s arms for your next tryst. Woman Power has you firmly in its bosom.

  Wrong! Wake up, sister.

  You can bet most women worth their salt who are not already pushing the sheets with another hunk would trade places with you and provide the silk pillowcase to boot. The competitive factor between women, especially single women, rivals any blood sport. With Samurai Swords drawn, they stand ready to take you out at a moment’s notice. If you really do have a soul sister who can sing “We Are Family,” count yourself extremely lucky.

  Hold tightly to his flaccid mid-section—you are in for some rough remarks.

  Your guy friends, however, are impressed. Wow, she must really be a good lay! they think to themselves. I wonder how old she really is? Who cares? She looks pretty good for her age, whatever it is! Yes, Madame Cougar, men are so dense!

  With Samurai Swords drawn, they stand ready to take you out at a moment’s notice.

  On the other hand, if the nightclub bouncer stops you Lovebirds at the door and insists on proving you are legal and your handsome escort pulls out his senior discount card, you could be labeled the kitten with the alley cat! Although true love has no boundaries, and we’ve all heard, “age doesn’t matter,” expect some raised eyebrows! Hold tightly to his flaccid mid-section—you are in for some rough remarks.

  Can you believe how young she is?

  We all know what she’s after . . .

  and it’s not his body!

  We all know what He’s after . . . her body!

  How disgusting, trying to relive his youth.

  She must be desperate to be with him!

  I bet He pops Viagra!

  Your aging Lord of the Manor thinks nothing of introducing the family to his trophy. After all, they will surely see immediately how much the two of you are in love. He can hear the accolades now for having picked a delectable queen for his castle. No unsightly bulges under the caftan for this frisky, young feline.

  If you really do have a soul sister who can sing “We Are Family,” count yourself extremely lucky.

  Your family is not so sure. They assume He’s gonna die a long time before you’re ready for the plowed field. You’ll have to raise the kids by yourself. “Will you get his social security?” they want to know. “If so, how much is it?”

  Face it, Barbie, your Ken is graying and fraying. He’s into Sinatra and you want Justin Timberlake. You order a dirty martini and He orders a shot of Mylanta. You are having a mid-afternoon snack while He is downing his last soft diet before early-to-bed. Close your eyes at bedtime as He crawls between the sheets and asks for another blanket. You still have a ways to go before your hot flashes.

  On the upside, your body’s imperfections will no longer be important as you accompany him to the cataract surgeon.

  If your unlined skin and tight thighs are made of alligator, and you don’t mind the arrows flung your way from everyone (and I do mean everyone), you could be in safe terrain. As you are thrust headlong into a previous generation, stock up on reading material, especially the latest issue of AARP magazine. Make sure his cardiologist is now a “favorite” in your contact list. On the upside, your body’s imperfections will no longer be important as you accompany him to the cataract surgeon. Just ask yourself before you plunge into the land of the elderly, “Do I really enjoy Sunday afternoons spent with his friends at Golden Acres?”

  If you have had at least one wedding shower, make it the last. It is considered gauche to have multiple showers for multiple weddings. You surely have the requisite mixer, blender, and carving knife.

  I know, it is really tempting to whisk over to the nearest Williams-Sonoma and add your name to the bridal lists so all of your well-wishers will bestow more goodies on the happy couple. And I know what you’re thinking: “Darn, an opportunity missed.”

  M
iss this one. Any announcement blaring, “We will soon be merging households” should be sans any reference to “The couple is registered at . . . ”

  If you pale at the thought of no new treasures and having to mix your smoothies with his avocado green blender, simply make the best of it, Pollyanna. Or open a new joint account at Target and feather your own nest.

  In regard to lingerie showers, Girls—don’t fool yourselves. The rules are simple for a happy Prince:

  If you’re under 30, you need to wear nothing at night!

  If you’re 30–45, his white shirt and flannel pants will suffice as your flesh might be a little softer than you’d like.

  50 and over: Wear the 30–45 year old attire, just dim the lights.

  Over 65: I suggest total darkness and no gifts. Even gag gifts make us gag at a certain age. No need to rub salt in the wounds!

  “We will soon be merging households” should be sans any reference to “The couple is registered at . . . ”

  The wedding, what a minefield! This is often where the real drama starts. William Shakespeare did not give us much of a revelation when he wrote, “The course of true love never did run smooth.” The path to planning the perfect day has never been easy, and believe you me, the petal-strewn walk down the aisle will be no bed of roses either!

  “Honey, you can have any kind of wedding you want . . . ” he may whisper to you in the early stages of bliss. Don’t fall for this as you fall into his arms. Be as wary as an alley cat eyeing a bowl of milk placed by a fence. You want a big wedding at a romantic destination or in a sweet, simple chapel, while He wants his ex brother-in-law (his best friend!) to be his best man. This is part of the big bag of trash you both bring to the relationship that sometimes can never be disposed of, but perhaps can at least be compacted.

  Regardless of the location, your special day is likely to be an assembly of friends, foes, and dysfunctional family: His, yours, Hers, and theirs! This celebration brings out the best and the beastly! Your perfect day will be analyzed and scrutinized from all sides.

  His female friends, especially the ones He bedded or potentially bedded, will be furious. There is no better description—they are all up in arms and wondering what kinds of tricks you pulled to get him.

  If you are marrying money, her newly flossed porcelains are ready.

  She probably gripped him with her great oral hygiene . . . what a slut! one thinks to herself as she holds the wedding invitation in hand. Still another affirms her wedding day strategy to her closest confidante, “I’ll go to the wedding, look simply fab, be mean to Her, and He will wish it were me He is whisking off my Manolo Blahniks!”

  And you can just hear his family’s reactions now.

  “Our little angel is marrying Her,” bemoans his vigilant mother, protecting her cub. “No surprise to me,” says Great Gramma Lil. “I just hope She’s not in the family way!”

  Mama Bear, in shock that her poor son is taking on the Kate Gosselin brood, whispers back, “I don’t know how he’ll ever make this bunch a living. I tell you one thing, she better not expect me to babysit one minute. It’s not me getting into this mess—it’s my husband’s son.”

  They are all up in arms and wondering what kinds of tricks you pulled to get him.

  Your mother is likely to be in one of two states at this point. If you are marrying money, her newly flossed porcelains are ready. “I just love my new son-in-law,” she will beam to everyone within earshot. Is it the smell of her brand new perfume purchased for the Big Day, or her syrupy bragging to her friends (whose children married assorted losers) that is creating a wave of nausea rampant in the room?

  Dressed to the nines but with somber expressions, they know this could be the end.

  On the other hand, your mother’s bouts with depression could reappear. If your Soon-to-be-Betrothed invited your father to accompany him to Men’s Warehouse to pick up his one-day tuxedo rental (and his mother offered to bake homemade meat loaf to serve at the rehearsal dinner), your mother will be forced to consider renewing her Valium prescription.

  To his crowd, a place setting means deciding which place at the table they can grab the fastest to wolf down another Frito pie! Here comes another freeloader, your mother thinks, wishing she could get a refund on your private school tuition. When she ends up throwing neighborhood parties in her doublewide, all the scrimping I did to pay for her sorority gown will prove needless, she laments.

  At the wedding rehearsal, the mothers-in-law try never to come close enough to rub any body parts together, including hugs or handshakes. Even though flu season has long passed, these two act like quarantined athletes ready for a fight. The slightest spark of competition can send the two mama bears into a sparring match while their two cubs receive last-minute instruction from the clergy.

  . . . your mother will be forced to consider renewing her Valium prescription.

  His children are freshly spit-shined from the saliva his Ex-wife has spewed. Their processional resembles Mary Queen of Scots going to the executioner. Dressed to the nines but with somber expressions, they know this could be the end. She has assured them, “Daddy is hooking up with the ugly stepmother. My darlings, you’re toast! You will be lucky to get a Walmart special next Christmas—it will be the one thing left that her kids didn’t want.”

  Just then, the bitter enemy approaches—the Last Wife’s Best Friend!

  You’ve threatened your children, “Do not make a scene.” They are at their Sunday best. Little smiling cherubs or teenage starlets, they will put on an Oscar-worthy performance. “Mommy, we are so glad to be at the ball. You look so pretty,” they chime together. (At this, the thought briefly occurs to you that maybe you shouldn’t have divorced their father since your genes so evidently worked to perfection!)

  At the reception, both families jockey for the best position in the buffet line. The shoving and hissing among the bloodlines might be clandestine, but be certain it’s there.

  Another wedding . . . at least the food looks good, the family misfits think as they gnaw on another beef rib. “Oh well,” mutters cousin Bernie. “Even if my top button snaps, I am eating another round. Moneybags can pay for it.”

  Here comes another freeloader, your mother thinks, wishing she could get a refund on your private school tuition.

  Just then, the bitter enemy approaches—the Last Wife’s Best Friend! She has been angling all night for a direct hit, one that can land you where you belong. She and the Last Wife have practiced their moves during their “just-one-more-glass” pity parties throughout your engagement. If she could not get to you before the priest marries you off, she will get to you during the conga line!

  By now, your face is beginning to freeze into an eternal “say cheese” position. “What are you smiling for?” she spits. Shocked into reality, you realize permanent lines have now formed around your grin even as you think, How I hate this witch.

  Suddenly your charm school training kicks in. “We know you are so happy for us,” you say as you squeeze your Beloved’s arm.

  Thank God the ring is tightly wound around your finger!

  Hyperventilating and unable to reply, she skulks off and later expresses her disappointment with a text to his Last Wife: “She is still standing. But I won’t give up. I am just like family and you can count on me.”

  Thank God the ring is tightly wound around your finger! This battle is over, but the war has just begun.

  Has your Lovebird already constructed a nest or two for his former Turtledoves before you arrived? There is a high probability He loves living in the big oak tree just the way it is. His Ex may do a flyby occasionally to check out if you’ve changed things—and surely for the worse.

  Although you may wince when the twigs left over from his former Beloved prick your love-primed buttocks, your Intended has said on more than one occasion, “My place is just the way I like it.” Uh-oh. Is that faint smell wafting through his bedroom Her Chanel No. 5, or a rotten core from the last Chickade
e who was the apple of his eye?

  Okay, Princess. Don’t even think of entering his lair until He at least changes the sheets. Even if He brags, “I just bought expensive new linens,” don’t be fooled. Realize that these are not for you, oh Cherished One. They are to cover up any sign of the last Canary who left flying south.

  Instead, what if your nest is the perfect abode? You have spent years fine-tuning your bungalow to your liking. Yours is the one place that has provided comfort after fruitless forages into the singles-bar jungles or countless church socials. As you staggered in your front door night after futile night, you always found refuge there as you hysterically searched eHarmony into the wee morning hours. Could He possibly be planning to alter your roost?

  Where do the newest snapshots of you two squeeze in?

  Whether He invades your idyllic homestead, or you choose to settle into his nest (despite constant jabs from leftover reminders of the former female resident), this is a big decision! If you settle in his man cave, expect complications.