Cinderella Has Cellulite (11 page)

“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 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!

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.

“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!

I
f 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!