Me in my living room trying to find and fire the butler.
Some people seem to have it all. Money, fame, mansions, you name it. I always wonder how the super-rich live on a daily basis. But are they truly happy? When money is no issue, when you can do whatever you want. Maybe, maybe not. But it would be fun to live this kind of life for one day. This is what I imagine it looks like.
I play hide-and-seek in my mansion penthouse with my son, both of us dressed in silk loungewear. We switch to silk Kimonos and eat sushi for breakfast (tuna and salmon from our lake), prepared by our Japanese chef who lives with us.
Later, I wear my new black Chanel dress to the opening of the latest La Boheme performance at the Vienna Opera, enjoying the best and most expensive seats, actually on stage with the performers while they perform. Yeah, that kind of rich.
I own a silk Dior bathrobe exclusively for wafting silently from room to room when I’m home alone.
I celebrate the life of my best friend’s recently departed dog, who was run over by my Rolls-Royce. I am dressed again in black Chanel from head to toe out of respect for Monsieur Le Pooch.
My pilot was five minutes late for pickup, but I still arrived on time at my silent retreat at a Cistercian monastery in the Bahamas, carrying my Louis Vuitton yoga mat. I prepared for the occasion by getting Botox shots in my armpits to ensure that the sound of dripping sweat will not disturb me during scorpion pose.
My butler is contractually obligated to say everything sotto voce (a quiet voice, in case you don’t know. We use big words and terms only because we are fancy!)
I take a therapist-mandated time-out, during which I must remove my Manolo Blahnik stiletto heels, sit in the corner of my therapist’s office (facing the wall), and remain silent for fifty-five minutes. My therapist is one of the leading proponents of Laconism, a school of psychiatry based on the belief that the best way to treat mental illness is not to speak about it.
I wear my Versace leather jumpsuit at a dinner invitation for diplomatic VIPs only. The US president will be present.
I have a Bottega Veneta toiletry kit full of calming supplements and remedies. It is getting a little chilly outside while I am putting on my Prada virgin wool earmuffs.
I hold in a fart in the ground-floor bathroom of the Ritz-Carlton Vienna.
I bring a suitcase stuffed with Armani cashmere scarves to my lover’s apartment in Vienna’s 1st District. I do this so I can scatter them on the floor and sneak out without waking him the next morning. That’s how much I care about his work as the president of BMW.
Now that I’ve created a foundation dedicated to baking Matcha cookies with real gold sprinkles,, I always take care to wear my Valentino wrap coat for the cookie headquarters’ annual active-shooter drill and mass casualties drill.
I take a break from my busy day and read a book at the rooftop cafe of The Four Seasons Hotel after having indulged in a lunch with too much lobster and caviar.
When my BMW lover dumps me at my charity cookie headquarters, I don’t make a scene. I save my screaming and sobbing for the soundproofed space our charity likes to call the “Feelings Room.”
During my voluntary stay at the Psychiatric Hospital for the super rich, I am confined to a leather-padded cell, wearing a vintage, studded straitjacket designed by Karl Lagerfeld.
I never talk about money. Only poor people do that.
