I told the cleaning ladies to clean all the mirrors first. They really don’t listen, do they.
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. Now, it’s unlikely for wealth to make one miserable. My point here isn’t that money is unimportant; it’s that if we have money without love, freedom, and a well-understood life, we will never be truly happy. And if we have them, but are missing the fortune, we can never be truly unhappy. It’s nice to have an expensive watch, but the watch will never be enough — feel enough — without having someone who will make you lose track of time. But real luxury in life to me is more time, health, financial peace, peace of mind, sense of purpose, restorative sleep, time in nature, meaningful connections and of course travel and time for fun. Here in Riyadh, it seems, ones is surrounded by money. The air smells like money and the abundance of things is enormous. So, to live like the super rich do, here in Riyadh, this is how I imagine it looks.
I play hide-and-seek in my 6000 square meter mansion with my son, both of us dressed in silk loungewear made out of gold. Sometimes, we don’t see each other for day because it is so big. We switch to silk Bisht (a formal, often gold-trimmed, outer cloak) and eat tons of dates and baclava for breakfast, prepared by our kitchen staff.
Later, I wear my new black Chanel dress to the opening of the latest camel and Arabian horse performance in a new overdimensional skyscraper that had been built overnight, enjoying the best and most expensive seats, actually on stage with the horses 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. Also, all the kings of all kingdoms.
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 wool scarf.
I hold in a fart in the ground-floor bathroom of the Ritz Carlton Hotel.
I bring a suitcase stuffed with Armani cashmere scarves to my lover’s castle. 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 Kingdom INC.
Now that I’ve created a foundation dedicated to making dates in all variations with real gold sprinkles, I always take care to wear my Valentino wrap coat for the dates 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 Ritz Carlton Hotel after having indulged in a lunch with too much lobster and caviar.
When my Kingdom INC lover dumps me at charity date headquarters, I don’t make a scene. I save my screaming and sobbing for the soundproofed space our charity likes to call the “Date-Baclava-Chicken-Rice 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.
