Things I can afford that the middle class cannot

There are few sounds as seductive as the the deep throated purr of my Aston Martin Vanquish S. This 520 horse, 200 mile an hour piece of engineering perfection set me back over 300 grand. That's more than the this country's median home price. And while she'll punish you when you're bad, when you're good she'll satisfy in ways that would get you beheaded in most Middle Eastern nations.

Oh, did I mention I have two of these? One for each coast.

The Aston is my preferred supercar. Sporty yet refined. Exquisite yet unpretentious. Much like myself, I should say. Many of the nuevo riche insist on parading around in their gaudy Italian monstrosities clamoring for the world's attention. They of course get it, though only from middle class gawkers from Iowa or other sheltered locales. Those who know, like myself, openly scorn such trivial material displays. The Aston, on the other hand, oozes sophistication and class, much like its owner and her sultry curves, much like those of the woman undoubtedly riding in the vehicle's fine calf-skin leather passenger seat, demand your attention.

I understand how envy can posses those who do not. I see the looks on their defeated faces as I rush by, a sophisticated glorious comet of carbon and polished chrome. I imagine their self-loathing growing with each strained RPM of their Honda's meager engine. They get good gas mileage. They pollute far less. They are safe and practical. But you know what? Those things mean nothing if you have enough money.

Every so often, when I feel the need to connect with my employees, I take a drive down to the Saturn dealership and test drive a car. As I economically plod along I pretend I am like them. I tune into the local radio station and roll down my window and imagine myself commuting to work or home to greet my loving family. I think this is a nice daydream, until I realize that there is nothing nice about being poor.