Forget tuning into The Apprentice (Thursday nights on NBC at 9/8 central-who’s kidding, I’m watching), I have witnessed first-hand the downfall of a wannabe socialite. That elitist was me.
I was asked once during a torturous group bonding exercise in a far too touchy-feely organization I am in to define my socioeconomic status. The set-up was like this: we were supposed to learn what it felt like to be segregated, or defined by being in a group apart from the mass, such that if you had “ever questioned your sexuality” or were “from a nation whose inhabitants come to America by way of raft” you were to walk across the room and stare back at the rest of the group, with only your singled-out compatriots to cling to. Well, when the questions came around to status, there were three categories by which you could define yourself: lower class, middle class and upper class. At the time, I never would have imagined that I would be the sole person to step forward as a modern aristocrat.
Did I relish this? Undoubtedly. Had I worked hard to cultivate a reputation that I had just walked off the set of “Beverly Hills, 90210,” only in slightly hipper, darker-colored apparel? Duh. In essence, I was living up to some kind of persona I had crafted that made me seem like, back home at the chalet or manor, I enjoyed such amenities as a horse stable amidst the well-manicured shrubbery mazes and personal valet at my personal disposal.
Well, I’m not here to dispel any rumors, but I can tell you that the old adage is right, my friends: money can’t buy happiness. Oh wait, sorry, that’s the noon mojito speaking. Of course it can, kiddos, and how. Where would I be if I didn’t think I could emulate the glitterati I so adore in the pages of Us Weekly and In Touch? If I didn’t know that I could assimilate with my fellow high and mighty retail revelers in Henri Bendel, Bergdorf Goodman, or even the local two by four foot shoe department at Plaza Frontenac’s Saks Fifth Avenue, just where would I be? Probably perusing the rack of Target, or dare I even think it, K-Mart? Give me a moment to collect myself.
So let us ask that eternal question given to us by that old world sage Tevye of the musical masterpiece Fiddler on the Roof (whom I should have been playing in sixth grade, thanks very much Mrs. Krupp!): what would we do if we were a rich wo/man?
Well, as always, we look to our friends the celebrities to answer this most crucial question.
The Michael Jackson Approach: Spend a lump sum of your wealth on building an elaborate playground of horrors, which you will use to lure the young and innocent, and then scare them with the facial reconstructive surgery you’ve used the rest of your money on. Hope that a television special made by a shady “investigative journalist” will salvage your reputation and revive your once relevant career. Dream on, psychopath.
The Madonna/Esther Approach: Find some cause, say The Kabbalah Centre, and give it millions of dollars a year to spread its quasi-spiritual, narcissistic messages. Write frightfully inept children’s books whose proceeds will go to the cause. Stage a massive world tour that will benefit (surprise!) the cause. Use your money to back a presidential hopeful whose daughter supports the cause. Dress fabulously and make out with youngsters (though not the Jacko variety), just because!
The Ben Affleck Approach: Fall for a fat-assed, over bronzed, talentless queen of self-promotion and buy her all the necessary trappings of love: luxury automobiles, a 6.1-carat pink diamond from Harry Winston and some Lucky Brand Jeans (where I spotted them in South Beach before they were “official!”). Proceed to lose all of your money post-breakup by making a string of ludicrously awful films followed by unemployment.
The Britney Spears Federline Approach: Blow all of your royalties on Twinkies, Jamba Juice and McDonald’s. Speed on over to Wet Seal to pick up some jean cut-offs and a wife beater. Invest in a double-wide trailer. Save a few bucks for your summer camp for underprivileged kids interested in the performing arts. Check into Weight Watchers, please.
In the case, though, that you don’t end up with your own episode of It’s Good to Be… or The Fabulous Life of… don’t fret too much. You still have a multitude of options open to you. You can marry into money, or inherit it even. If all else fails, do consider applying for a reality show, then. At least you know I’ll be watching (translation: dress well, be afraid).