Cinderella Has Cellulite (14 page)

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
.

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!

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.

“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.

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!