IWe are bombarded with political rhetoric that targets rich people and politicians are expounding on how they are out to get them.  “My fellow Americans, I will wring every last dime out of them that they have made and make them pay such high taxes the rest of Americans can forget about the IRS and live happily ever after.’

Even the rich say the very rich should have their money boxes emptied and I suppose the very rich think the very, very rich should give up their annuities, money both inherited or merited, interest as well as principal.

For a few days I fully concurred with the theory that the rich and those further up that golden ladder with all the money should pay their fair share.  After all, the middle class has carried the tax burden long enough.  As far back as those halcyon days of the Roman Empire the middle classes have been taxed to death.  They finally got tired of it and quit.  And that was the end of the Roman Empire.

But my cherished beliefs were shattered when I read in a major news magazine that there is a new and disquieting division in the American citizenry. There is no more middle class! One is either poor or rich. Taxes have been piled so heavily on the backs of the middle class they slowly sank under the weight of it all and now have been declared extinct.  I did not realize that the middle class disappeared like the dinosaurs.

Apparently for some time there has only been the poor and the rich. What a revelation!  Since I am not poor then, according to the financial wizards, obviously I am rich!  Even the rich are further categorized into rich and wealthy.  Being rich is entirely different than being wealthy.  With an annual income of $1 to $50 million one is wealthy; having $50 to $100 million one is ridiculously wealthy and anything more than that one is said to be unbelievably wealthy.

Being wealthy sounds like one has old, family money. The people who have always lived in the mansion on the hill. Or lacking hills, the largest house in town. When I was a child those people were known to be well-to-do or well-fixed. Actually, people did not talk a great deal about money in those days.  It was considered ill bred to discuss anything to do with one’s personal finances. And, the extremely wealthy drove old cars and wore comfortable clothes.  The men liked to drive old tractors on their plantations and the ladies didn’t mind getting dirt on their hands as they pulled weeds in the magnificent gardens they loved. 

Now, people discuss anything at any time and with anyone.  Especially on as many television talk shows as possible.  While I was stunned to read I was among the rich, I was extremely gratified to know that as last I had reached that exalted echelon, Just barely. And it only took a lifetime.  It became interesting research to see if my life as a rich person differed all that much from that of a wealthy person.

Articles in all the slick, glossy magazines gush on and on about how the unbelievably wealthy people live.  I discovered that the more dollars the wealthy have the more they concentrate on pinching pennies.  Mr. Big thinks everything should be made do, eaten up, worn out, sold or deposited in the bank.

I could hardly believe that Mr. Big clips coupons from newspapers to use in the supermarket.  I usually don’t like or use the products.  But Mr. Big plans meals around the bargains whether he likes them or not.  He sells his used clothing.  I give mine away.  He does not furnish his household staff with food or drinks.  There are several cold drink machines in his basement and the staff buy their own. He did mention that he only makes ten cents on each drink sold. I give people who work for me at my house cold drinks with ice when it’s hot and hot things to drink when it’s cold.

He also collects the cans and his chauffer drives him and six or seven sacks of cans to the recycling plant.  He chuckles with glee when the chauffer brings him $15 for the cans.  I would pay someone $30 not to have to fool with the cans.  Proof positive that I am indeed rich.

At Mr. Big’s house the staff bring their own lunch or supper.  He plans meals for himself with his chef and orders the groceries for delivery.  He rarely eats steak (too expensive) or seafood (same thing) but just cannot live without pate fois gras (fat goose liver). I do eat steak and seafood and do not eat pate fois gras only because I do like it.  You see, that what being rich means.

He supervises the stocking of the refrigerator and the pantry.  Both are padlocked and he has the only keys.  I smiled with pleasure when I read that I spend more on groceries than he does. Just about anyone would.  Another sign that I am and have always been rich and never knew it.

You may wonder if there are obvious way to tell if you or anyone else is rich. The litmus test to prove richness is if they are gainfully employed.  If they are on someone’s payroll – then they are now considered to be rich.  The government has said so.

Mr. Big said he never buys garbage or trash bags.  He ues the heavy plastic bags his groceries arrive in.  I do buy garbage and trash bags but I call them gar-bahge: and “tra-shay”  sacques. That makes all the difference.

It has been thrilling to realize that after working my entire life for a salary I am suddenly recognized by the government as being rich.  My mother, who was always right, would say with a frown, that to declare oneself to be rich with such pleasure would place me among the nouveau riche. I don’t care.

It’s better to be nouveau than never to be riche at all.