For the Love of 'Old Money'

Chapter 1- INTERVIEW

Old money.

Wikipedia defines it as this:

"Old money is 'the inherited wealth of established upper-class families' or 'a person, family, or lineage possessing inherited wealth'. The term typically describes a class of the rich who have been able to maintain their wealth over multiple generations, often referring to perceived members of the de facto aristocracy in societies that historically lack an officially established aristocratic class (such as the US)."

But what Wikipedia doesn't tell you is that, coming from old money is not a choice. It's a birthright. And with that comes an unspoken set of rules, rules ingrained since infancy.

Rule #1- NEVER openly discuss money with anyone outside of a boardroom or your lawyer's office. (It's just bad taste)

Rule #2- NEVER brag. (You're secure in your financial status. Leave the bragging to 'new money')

Rule #3- Give to at least several charities. (Especially for tax and image purposes. Think hospital wings and universities)

Rule #4- Keep it in the family. (This includes companies, properties, secrets)

Rule #5- Buy quality not quantity and nothing too flashy. (This encompasses homes, clothing, cars, etc.)

Which brings us to the sixth rule...

Rule #6- NEVER marry an outsider. (Even with an ironclad prenup, stick to the notion that 'outsider' should equal 'outside with her')

So there you have it! The six classic rules of a non-existent aristocracy.

And it's all hogwash, if you ask me. Which, of course, no one did, because I'm neither 'old money' nor 'new money'.

I'm what some might call 'classically broke'.
As in, 'Yum, Ramen noodles again for dinner!' And 'who needs to buy drinks, when we have perfectly good tap water?'

Don't get me wrong, I'm not bitter about being poor, rather, I'm proud of my thrifty ways. But, if I'm being honest (and I almost always am), I do fantasize about how neat it would be to go to the dentist and not worry about having to tell him 'No thank you Dr. Green. I've grown quite fond of my two cavities and don't want to part with them', merely because I don't have an extra $200 bucks to spare.

When people ask me what part of New York I live in, I love the dropped jaws they give when I proudly say 'SoHo'.

Obviously, the neighborhood is a tad above my pay grade. And if not for my eighty-two year old Grandma Faye, who's lived in this one-bedroom apartment since dinosaurs roamed the earth, and her refusal to 'sell-out' to any man with a checkbook, I would never have such a prestigious address.

But between Grandma Faye's social-security check and my meager barista's salary, there's not much left over for everyday expenses. Hence, why I'm walking into this monstrosity of a building, wearing my swankiest Ann Taylor pencil skirt (I offer many thanks to my generous benefactor, for supporting their local goodwill) and my favorite black blouse.

Sorry no high-heels. (This is still New York after-all, wouldn't want to look like a tourist)

The front desk man prints me a temporary badge that is required to pass through security, the badge making me feel super special and slightly James Bondish. That is, until I look at the DMV quality photo of myself plastered on the front of the badge. I look more like a Bond villain.

I always tell people how un-photogenic I am, and usually I receive some version of this disbelieving response, 'but you're so beautiful Emmy. there's no way you could take a bad picture!' I make a mental note to save this hideous badge, in order to thoroughly prove my point.