Twenty

Twenty dollars is nothing. Well, at least to me it is. I hope that doesn’t make me sound pretentious.

This just in: Rich Bitch from the Suburbs tries to make a Statement.

If I’ve learned anything over the past couple of years, it’s that first impressions aren’t always the most accurate. Maybe that’s why I’m still single. Sometimes I get really nervous and do this weird half laugh-half snort thing when I’m around a cute guy. But that’s beside the point. It’s not like I’m the only one with this problem. There’s a lot more to people, you know? There’s a lot more to me. I may live in this upscale apartment with my tiny dog and a 2012 Lexus in the garage, but should those things really define me? This all sounds so typical, I know. I’m just a sad little rich girl trying to prove to people “I can make it on my own.” “I’m independent.” “I’m just like you.”  But that’s not what I’m getting at here. The truth is I don’t know where I would be without my parents’ money. I’d probably be living in some crummy building near Southside with four roommates, struggling to pay off all of my student loans. Yes, I live a life of glamour, but all of that money—all of my privilege—it got me here, and sometimes focusing on where you’re at is all that matters—not how you got there.

The monetary value of this bill in my hand is nothing to me. I could throw it in the trash and wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep. But this simple fact isn’t the thing keeping me awake right now, forcing me to spill my thoughts out to whoever is reading this. What’s keeping me awake is the idea of the bill itself. There’s something more to it. I’m just sitting here in my kitchen, staring at this crumpled twenty dollar bill like a crazy person because as I hold it between my fingers I can’t help but wonder how many others held it between theirs. Where has this bill been? What has it seen? How many stories does it hold? It’s clear that it’s been around for awhile. There’s an almost permanent crease right down the center and there is a faint outline of a mustache below poor Mr. Jackson’s nose. There are a couple of numbers scratched on the bottom in blue ink—numbers that make little sense to me, but are of use to someone somewhere. It is soft—much unlike the fresh bills you get out of the ATM that are sharp enough to give you paper cuts. It is worn and faded, but that’s what makes it beautiful. That’s what makes it oddly… human.

My dog is staring at me like I’m an idiot.

Gosh, maybe all the wine is going to my head. I just opened it. Chateau Lafite. This bottle costs more than most people’s rent for the month. Come to think of it, that’s where I got this twenty dollar bill. I asked for cash back once I swiped my card and bought this ridiculously expensive midnight treat. I bet I could drink a different bottle worth only twenty dollars and wouldn’t even be able to taste the difference. But buying things most people wouldn’t ever dream of affording is just something I do. That’s what this lifestyle entails. You live alone in an apartment suitable for a family of six, you buy four-hundred dollar jeans with holes in them just because you can, and you sit at your kitchen table in front of a bottle of Chateau Lafite ignoring the fact that instead of buying this bottle of wine, you could have funded a water pump for a village in Africa.

If that doesn’t make you want to take a drink, I don’t know what would.

I don’t even remember why I asked for cash back. I don’t need this. I don’t deserve this. This bill doesn’t belong to me. It’s someone else’s, but somewhere along the way they’ve exchanged it for things that are probably no more. But this bill is a part of them, just like it’s becoming a part of me now.

I’m not making sense anymore.

I really need to stop drinking.