I ran into an artist friend today that I had not seen in years. She was decked out in head-to-toe Prada and accessorized with a pale green Marc Jacobs’s handbag and a mouth full of perfect veneers. Needless to say, I was a tad shocked. I mean, the last time I saw her she was running around the East Village in a 70’s thrift store lime green leisure suit with matching platform shoes.
Over coffee she lavished me with photos of her fabulous loft and stories of her trips to Paris. She told me she had married rich and was deliriously happy.
As I sat there sipping my soy latte from a chipped cup in my low-slung jeans, which I had found in my hallway, I couldn’t help but to think how different we now were.
As if reading my mind, she spoke:
“You know, I just got sick of pretending that Goodwill clothes were chic and thrift store knick knacks gave my apartment individuality,” she deadpanned. “I was sick of dressing and living in other people’s lives – I wanted my own life.”
It made sense to me, but as I walked back to my thrift store and garbage can decorated apartment, it got me to thinking….can money buy happiness? I think it can – at least in Manhattan.