Cinderella Has Cellulite (3 page)

If you and your Honey are at a five-star dinner with the CEO of a New York City bank, you can bet these two discussed his millions earlier in the day. The greedy banker made his point, “How can we make sure it rots in my vault never to be touched by her manicured fingers? After all, money is meant to be inherited by your Precious Ones.”

Your Scrooge realized, “He’s right! This must not include any Tiny Tim not conceived through my loins. I’ve been successful in my own right as a man, and
my
Precious Ones stand to inherit!”

Whether or not you accept it, money has a lot to do with how you are treated as the Last Wife. If Moneybags has already implemented an ironclad prenup that will control your every move, then whether He has pecs the size of Arnold, or the buzzards make a daily pass by the house just to see when his stretcher is rolled out for a potential feeding, money will be your soulmate.

So face it. If He’s rich, you are a witch. I think that pretty much sums it up.

I
f you are one of the fortunate ones whose heretofore committed Stud Muffin has been lavishing you with over-the-top booty bounty, this could be bad. Step on the bathroom scale and record your fighting weight. You may need to bulk up for the arm wrestling and body blows that are looming in your future. The La Perla lingerie that He so deliriously delivered on Friday as you deftly slipped into your dancing shoes may be inadequate for the next phase of relationship bliss.

Once in the throes of his unparalleled charm and cunning remarks about your sexy smile, you may accidentally overlook it when He whispers, “We are going to need a prenup.” Later, of course, you will replay every moment of the evening in your head, including his offhand remark. Did you hear him say we
need
a prenup? Your mind may jump to The Donald. Trump is probably the only one who will
need
another prenup. Surely, not my Man-Angel?

Your mind is buzzing, and the room is spinning. Suddenly, you realize the Rat has slipped something into the multiple martinis He insisted you swallow. You try to regain your composure even as your red La Perlas start pinching your cellulite. Of course, in the initial days of your courtship He assured you, “I don’t see any cellulite, Honey.” You suspect that He has since checked you out in the glaring sunlight and quietly shaved off one third of any assets He would share with you in the future. He knows that in order to have blissful consummation night after night, He will need to spring for your liposuction. And He happens to know a good plastic surgeon. This man is no fool!

A tear comes to your eye as you think,
I am in over my head!
This is a good time to think about the one person you admire the most, your yoga instructor. She has prepared you for this moment. In times of extreme stress, you have learned to take deep, cleansing breaths . . . now, do it! With each labored breath, your devious Dinner Mate will simply think you are hot for him! This is good; let him think it.

The Sly Devil breathes deeply also, but his is a sigh of relief as He tells himself,
If she puts up a fight at some later date, my lawyers will do all the dirty work. I will just remind her that she affirmed her cooperation. “But, Honey, don’t you remember, we agreed the night I gave you the red lacy bra?”

What do you do now? You pray. You wait. You try to find your lawyer.
Where is he? At Gold’s Gym again?
Don’t begrudge him—this could work in your favor because he will need big muscles to protect you.

Still sitting at dinner, you suddenly hear an ominous craaack—is it a crack in your relationship, or is it just the term his lawyers will use to gain position and bargaining power when they tell your Prince Charming (or Don Juan) that you might be “cracking up”?

They’ll say, “As your lawyers, we must tell you we believe you should shave another third from your assets because she is going to need therapy!”

And they may be right!

I
s your engagement ring bigger than Hers? Everyone is going to ask. If that is the case, do you strut around with your big diamond shining in Her kids’ faces? You know the question the Ex is dying to ask—“What kind of ring did Daddy get her?”

If your friends mistake your engagement ring for a crystal paperweight, and your body weight increases by a percentage point once it’s on your finger, it might be said of you, “She’s a gold digger.”

Everyone will think you hit pay dirt before the big day. You can bet that after you ran into Her old girlfriends at the deli they whipped out an iPhone and asked Siri to dial up his Ex.

“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.