It's All About the Benjamins

I grew up in tiny-town USA. We’re talking less than a thousand people total; 37 in my graduating class. If you were stranded with a flat tire, people would stop and help… and I don’t mean pulling over to let you use a cell phone—they would get out and change it for you or take you home, even if it meant they’d be late for dinner. I don’t remember ever locking the doors at home, and the select few in town who did freely gave out their garage code to friends and neighbors. If it was harvest season, you could be late for school, no questions asked (driving a John Deere isn’t exactly speedy).

You get the picture.

Everyone knew everything about everyone. Good luck getting away with much before your parents, grandparents, cousins, and your first-cousin twice-removed-who-lives-an-hour-away finds out. But it wasn’t just what you were up to… people knew everything. Including, in some cases, how much your family made. By age 7, you had a clear idea of who the ‘rich kids’ were in your class- it was obvious who was putting money in the collection plate at church and who was simply passing it along.

That being said, it wasn’t, and still isn’t classy to talk about money. Not the case here.

People lead with their money.

I found this out very early on during my first outing on 5th Avenue. It was a reunion of friends from, believe it or not, South Dakota. LK lives here in Naples and Nic lives up in St. Pete (bless her heart). It didn’t take long for us to realize we were a world away from the Spearfish Wal-Mart parking lot where we met two winters ago. Our tab was graciously paid by the CFO of a major insurance company—one that you’ve heard of (think this jingle: da-da-da is on your side). He started to ask about what we do for a living and how we move up in our careers.



“If not money… what motivates you? What else is there?” he asked. I tried explaining that at age 23, quality of life doesn’t necessarily mean you have a quantity of bills in your wallet… but it was clear after about 15 minutes of arguing the point that we lived in different worlds. “I pay a girl $80,000 a year to write press releases for me… is that comparable to what you do?” No sir, it’s not.

Not even close.

A week later, Kayla moved in. She wasn’t in Florida for 5 hours before she realized how bad the rich-idemic is here. We were bellied up at the bar (not being antisocial… at this point K was still on crutches from breaking her pelvis… which is another blog altogether) when a tall, cute, perfect-for-Kayla guy approached us.



Now guys, take note-- bars are loud. If you want to engage in conversation, you’re going to need to talk a bit louder than normal.

This guy was whispering. I was several drinks in, and more than a little annoyed.

After asking him to repeat himself about 11 times, we finally heard his voice go to what could be considered a normal volume. What he said, I wish I hadn’t heard…

“You girls don’t understand. I’m like, really rich.”

I’m not kidding. Verbatim. Next.

I could let this stuff go if these were isolated incidents, but it’s a near-nightly occurrence. Just this past Saturday, we were celebrating a birthday with a group of co-workers and some of their friends from outside the office. As I know, nothing good happens after 2 a.m., so when we were invited to an after-bar with some of our new drinking buddies, we declined.

About an hour later, I got a text message: You girls are missing out. We are in a million-dollar condo… missed ur chance!

I’m good with my rental, thank you. That number is now listed as DO NOT ANSWER in my cellular.