People often aspire to ‘the perfect life’. They do, there’s no denying it. Whether that be Porsche’s and mansions, traveling the world first class, boob jobs and hair extensions, a wardrobe packed full of designer clothes….it tends to involve money. It makes the world go round after all. But at what price?
When it comes to wealthy men there are two types of wives. The trophy wife who wants him for his money. And the real wife who wants him for him.
The first wife is easy. Perhaps a little high maintenance but what’s a few thousand pounds here or there. She is premed and polished as a doll, every hair placed (or removed), every nail acrylic, her skin is blemish free 365 days a year (and if for some reason it lapses, she has her dermatologist quickly fix it) her ass is ripe as a plum, stomach a wash board and her boobs were only fitted a year ago and still in the height of their newborn phase. She hangs off his arm like the latest Rolex; only this piece turns more heads. She’ll be where he wants, when he wants with only the smallest of protest. So what if she snorts coke in the toilets and drinks champagne with every lunch. She melts plastic like the disposable product it is, then demands more. More shoes. More bags. More diamonds. More fur but never, ever, more love. This one doesn’t need it. It’s ideal, he can whisk himself away with work for weeks, even months on end and she won’t even bat an eyelid. She may even rejoice a little at the freedom in her new palace. He looks down at her from his pedestal, faintly reminded of her existence when the gold card bill comes in, and when he polishes the glass she stands behind and she looks back, bemused and perhaps respectful.
The second wife is the ball breaker, the real effort piece. This one wants the man, not the money. She wants something money can’t buy – time. The one thing he needs if he’s to bring in the green at the levels he has set for himself. He needs a duplicate to keep this one happy and keep career focused. The thing about this woman is she loves him. Not his cars or his houses, not the shoes (although they’re nice) or the jewelry (she could take it or leave it), she doesn’t want six holidays while he works if she can get one weekend when he doesn’t. She would trade a days shopping alone in Brown Thomas for an afternoon with him in a park. She’d say no to a flashy restaurant over a night with wine by the fire. If he travels, she misses him. Who wants to be alone in a big old soulless house, with a scrap of junk from China that tells her he exists when she swipes it? She wants a partner, not an excuse. This wife, the real one, the one who will be there if you strip everything away, is, after all, the highest maintenance of all. Who would have thought? Real love comes with a price tag that wealth can not fulfill but the man behind it can.
As a man – which would you want, really, really want if your pockets were lined with gold and your brain consumed with figures?
And ladies – the choice is very simple, if you’re looking for love, you’ll marry whoever, whatever but if you’re looking for money, could you find happiness in material things, alone?
I think neither choice is difficult. What’s life, without love? What is the point in it all.