Frothy Paradise

I was talking to a lady in my office today, and in the course of our conversation about a certain case, she observed that by dint of their marriages to wealthy men, a bunch of our colleagues are in a completely different (higher, obviously) income bracket from the one she and I occupy. She expressed some consternation over these circumstances. Let me rephrase that, actually: she was bitter and pissed off as hell about it.

I said, “Yeah, but you know, I really can’t get too upset about that. I’m not suffering. I have a roof over my head, a pretty large apartment, good food to eat. I can go out to the movies and plays, and can travel reasonably frequently, and don’t worry much about the money I spend for those things. Sure, I don’t have a husband who makes a million dollars a year as a partner at [insert name of large law firm here], but you know, I have a really good marriage to a good man who makes me happy. What on earth do I have to complain about?”

And the lady looked at me, my hand to god, like I had just suggested implementing a system whereby the members of the State Senate would be permitted to sacrifice and consume the first-born children of all New York State residents. Just total shock, as though I had gone completely, irrevocably insane.

Ok, no bullshit now: Am I crazy, or is she?