Prettay, prettay rich

Americans love their vacations. They work 50 weeks a year, just for the opportunity to NOT work 2 weeks a year. 

Who am I kidding? How many of us actually take two week vacations? 

Two weeks with my family in a cramped hotel room, living out of a suitcase, and paying $14 for a beer poolside would always drive me bonkers and yearning to be stateside and seated at the Long Table of Mediocrity™, writing B2B copy about bidirectional flanges.

Still, I managed to enjoy myself on the many vacations we took to Hawaii, Mexico, even Europe, though I probably wouldn't go back to Europe during the winter months when the cold stinging wind from the Firth of Forth has the power to stop an invading Saxon army in its track.

Know who hates vacations? Jerry Seinfeld. He said so in an interview that was floating around social media last week.

Poor Jerry.

Poor, Very Rich Jerry.

I started thinking about what a cursed life this man must lead. Cursed, not just because he can't go anywhere he pleases without untoward attention at every turn. That's the cost of fame. 

But truly cursed because he has enough money for a lifetime, even if he were to live the life of Methusalah (932 years.) 

He has so much money that it means nothing, now. That's the cost of wealth.

This is a phenomena very few of us will know. Or understand. In fact, if you're reading THIS blog and find yourself in the same...going to the Google...obscenely priced Allen Edmonds Park Ave shoes, you have my deepest sympathies.

Imagine walking down Rodeo Drive and knowing that everything you see, is everything you can own. With a simple nod to your personal valet and a knowing wink, it, or everything, is stuffed into your Black Onyx Bugatti.

There's no coveting. No pangs of desire. No drifting off into an imaginary world to ponder, "If I buy this how will it improve my life? And is a double breasted blue blazer from Milan worth all that money to make me look 64 years old as opposed to 66?"

And what about houses? How sad it must be to walk into any Open House in America, or on the planet, and know that with a flick of a pen and a few quick signatures, within a week your movers could start laying out your socks in the top cedar-lined drawer of a hand crafted chest in your new Master Bedroom overlooking Martha's Vineyard or the private beaches of Molokai?

When everything is affordable, nothing is special. 

And when nothing is special, well, I might just consider tossing all that money out of a low flying C-130 and returning to my prior life as a line cook at Denny's, driving a 1966 Dodge Coronet and sleeping under 5 blankets to avoid paying the skyrocketing gas bills.

Or, on second thought, I'd hire a guy to write a screenplay and make that movie so I could see how it turns out.