Saturday, we, along with all you no doubt, were busy watching the Cowboys beating the tar out of the Eagles.
I began to realize, that after scores, the cameras would pan to the rich boxes and show us the reaction of owners and former president, George “do ya like me now,” Bush. I began to become fairly annoyed. “Why do they keep showing me those people?” I whined. “I don’t care about them!”
As I am wont to do, that led to further thinking on my part. And I wondered, exactly what about the rich pisses me off so? Am I just jealous of their good fortune? Or is there something else?
I truly don’t think it has to do with the money. I like to think that in America, everyone has a chance to excel and make monetary gains and live a good life. If you want to work day and night in return for lots of dough, enjoy yourself. You worked for it, and I don’t begrudge you one bit.
So what is it? I’ve alluded to it before–it’s wretched excess that I object to. How many homes? How many cars? How much jewelry and how many designer dresses? I do object to all that, even with your ever present foundations and charitable causes. They are but a drop in the bucket for you, a nice tax write-off, and a neat and comfortable way for you to assuage your guilty feelings about sipping $300 dollar bottles of champagne while others search through dumpsters for eatable food.
If your wealth is inherited, I guess it bothers me more. The Paris Hiltons of the world make us question our policies of leaving infanticide out of our code of acceptable conduct. To trudge from city to city, country to country, partying away your life, grinning at paparazzi and sporting the latest haute couture is frankly a waste of oxygen.
But the real anger goes ever so much deeper, and in truth, it’s probably not anger at all, but resentment. Think for a moment. Think of what it might be like to be able to have anything. Think of walking into your favorite shopping center and favorite store. Imagine being able to buy anything whatsoever, and as much of it as you wish. Imagine doing this every day.
Imagine thumbing through a magazine and spotting something or other, and calling the number and ordering it, without ever bothering to ask the price. Imagine thinking of plane fare as about as important to you as the gas expended on a three mile trip to Troy by car is to me. Imagine that.
Imagine having balconies listing lazily over the Aegean Sea, or an apartment with a view of the Eiffel Tower. Imagine a sun-kissed sea of blue green sliding beneath your sails as you glide from Martha’s Vineyard down the Atlantic Coast to your favorite playground port. Try. . . . You can do it.
But most of all, imagine this. Imagine waking each morning, and never having to think about how very near disaster you really are. Whether your income is $140,000 or $22,000 per year, we all pretty much live near the edge of our income. We are mostly only a few months from ruin. A couple of major disasters following one after another will put us in bankruptcy.
Some of us budget better than others, some of us demand a bigger cushion than others. But to one degree or another, that nagging anxiety inhabits our psyche at every moment. We may push it away from long periods, but we visit it enough to know that it is unpleasant to think about.
Now, imagine waking up and not having to ever think of that again. Your financial life is secure, more secure than anything. You could not spend all you have if you spent hundreds of thousands a day for years. Imagine what that would be like?
We can imagine, and we realize that they (those rich folks) live lives that are utterly free from this concern. And we resent them for it. We resent them the fact that they have escaped by sheer work or by luck, the ever present anxiety that most of the world takes as a matter of course.
It does not cause me to suggest that communism should be on our agenda. No, I am still fairly willing to let the rich be rich. (This is not to say that I don’t think that limits are required. They should be taxed excessively–nobody needs 8 houses after all, and if they want them, they should get simply lambasted with taxes.)
But frankly, I don’t want to be assaulted with their “lifestyle” all the time. I don’t want to see their homes, and their boats, and their crap. I don’t want to see them living it up at Vail or other rich meeting places. I don’t want to see Paris or any of her friends. I don’t care to see or hear about their love lives or their family squabbles. And I assure you I don’t care one whit about your thoughts on “poverty” and how tough a time the average American is having. Mostly you can’t begin to relate.
You can call it jealousy if you want. I don’t think that’s it. It’s just that the extremely wealthy are getting this perfectly wonderful free ride on the anxiety bus, and that should be enough of a bonus. I don’t need to eavesdrop on their galas and sport outings. I don’t need to hobnob vicariously. Why do they need fame and celebrity status on top of it all?
You won’t find me in the gallery at the “red carpet” events. So don’t bother looking.
Existential Ennui 