But for those awkward hours between classes, the richlings all held onto their conveniently located pied-a-terre dorm rooms. Which they pimped out with fluffy hand-tooled oriental rugs, sectional couches, big TVs and refrigerators filled with beer and spicy finger food.
The Really Rich get complete and entire new wardrobes every season. If you say you like their shirt they will take it right off and give it to you. There's more shirts where that one came from. The Really Rich go heliskiing and think if you don't go it's not because you can't afford to rent a helicopter for the weekend, it's because you're busy.
The Really Rich don't quite comprehend any other state of personal finance, and if they do, it is with utter detachment. They put on the same third-person in safety goggles viewpoint I do when I watch A Waterhole in the Serengeti on the Discovery Channel.
And in my experience, the Really Rich would no more brag about their possessions than you would about your genetic makeup. Unless, of course, you're an ass and flounce around cocktail parties talking about how you were born with all body parts in perfect working order, no mental retardation and have escaped the heartbreak of scoliosis. And poverty.
So at a minimum, I have a little perspective. At a maximum, I have a minimum of tolerance. On average, I have a notepad I carry around in my handbag.
A Little Poem I Jotted In My Notebook While Not Paying Attention to A Lengthy Soliloquy Mostly Consisting of the Word "Fancy," Specifics on Carat Sizes, IRS Obligations and The Exact Cost for Deluxe Household Appliances of Questionable Utility
Those who boast the most
about what they've got,
have more than a little
but less than a lot.