Cinderella Has Cellulite by Donna Arp Weitzman Read Free Book Online Page A

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!

D o 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!

H ow 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