Are you rich? Then I might not like you. (Getty Images)
Are you rich? Then I might not like you.
I hate most rich people because they tend to be pretentious, boring, and self-satisfied. I know I'm generalizing badly, but… I don't care. Sorry if this applies to you.
But, dear reader, whatever your income, I don't think this applies to you, because the fact that you're reading my column right now indicates that you are, in fact, a person of good taste and deep insight.
And thank you for continuing to employ me.
When you grow up poor and working class like me, it's easy to resent rich people because they wear the latest fashions from Paris and you wear ugly homemade clothes (and yes, sometimes the homemade dresses are uglier, but… They are from Paris.
You're waiting in the sun for the bus while a shiny German car drives by, throwing empty Perrier bottles out the window. One hits you, but luckily it's plastic. You grab it so you can recycle it for five cents, yelling at the car as it speeds away: “Eat dirt, you rich, entitled weasel.”
You received a $20 gift certificate to a high-end department store. When you walked in, you realized there was nothing you could buy with that $20 except a canvas shopping bag with the store's logo on it. Meanwhile, you felt like everyone was staring at you because they knew you didn't belong there.
Your rich friend invites you to meet him at a fancy restaurant, but you're too embarrassed to hand your old, beat-up car over to the parking attendant, so you park it on the street four blocks away. This is odd, because the attendant is obviously not rich, or else he wouldn't be parking cars for a living.
The funny thing is, a lot of rich people started out poor, but they worked really hard and became very rich. Very nice guy” I always question that statement.
I'm an old man now, but I've learned from years of experience that people don't get rich by being nice; they get rich by being cold-hearted lunatics and working harder than anyone else and doing whatever it takes, including firing Bob Cratchit on Tiny Tim's birthday.
When they finally achieve ripe-for-the-rich status, most people fawn over them, laugh at their lame jokes, go along with their plans (even if they are stupid), and accept a never-ending stream of empty praise.
“The egg you spilled on your tie this morning at breakfast matches your chic ensemble perfectly! Looks amazing,” is the kind of comment you'll often hear from these people. “Yes, I think driving to the spa at 120 miles per hour in a Ferrari is a great idea.”
This kind of flattery is boring because they Even if you try You have to be funny and likable, and then all of a sudden you're Jerry Seinfeld, Beyoncé and Mother Teresa all rolled into one.
Admittedly, I am biased because I chose a profession notorious for being low-paying. Yes, I've ridden on fire engines, met celebrities, and been to glamorous parties with pen and notebook in hand. But I'm embarrassed to admit that after a lifetime of hard work as a so-called journalist, I only make a pittance.
But I have two rich friends. Both got rich later in life through their own intelligence and hard work. I like them because they live just like any other person. Neither of them has ever bought a $25,000 handbag.
I remember this because I once met a man who owned a store that sold safes. He had just sold one to a woman who wanted one to store her expensive purse. Apparently, she was worried that her maid would steal the safe. What a horrible thought.
I don't have a maid myself, but I do have a housekeeper who helps me sometimes, as I am crippled and old.
Luckily, I don't own any expensive handbags because I bought most of them in downtown L.A. If Dora wanted one of those, I'd be totally okay with that.
These days I no longer envy rich people, except that they have the money to travel; when I pass them in a first-class reclining compartment on a plane to Cambodia, I think, yes, I wouldn't mind swapping places; otherwise, I'm struck by how mundane and unglamorous their lives often are.
It's true that money can't buy happiness, but it can buy freedom, so you can pay someone to scrub your sink or pick up your dry cleaning, and you don't get stressed out when your boss complains about you taking time off to take your kids to school.
Most of the time I'll stick with my friends who shop at Target and drive beat-up cars, but sometimes I wish I had rich friends who weren't fussy and liked to travel.
Meanwhile, I can’t help but be content with a job I love, a cozy if messy home, a 2001 Toyota Corolla, and loved ones. All in all, not a bad life.
Want to contact me? My email address is mfisher@scng.com. I'd especially appreciate it if you could let me know what I'm doing wrong.
