Il y a des gens riches, et il y a ceux qui ont de l’argent. – Coco Chanel
King Ferdinand is a forty-six-year-old woman who recently moved from Brooklyn to Providence with a little rescue beagle by the name of Sophie.
In the couple years since her divorce, King Ferdinand has, amongst other things, found God. In no way should this be taken to mean that she is by any measure of the word better than the next guy. Not even close. Take the current state of her spirit, for example. It’s as poor as her robe is shoddy. As of late, King Ferdinand’s loves are out of order; as of late, King Ferdinand has put money higher than love on her list of priorities.
For a little over half a year now, King Ferdinand has been dating this sexy Lebanese guy, an architect, who loves her madly and whom she loves madly. They have recently discussed the idea of living together, and though her heart’s first reaction was one of joy, lately she has been wondering if she’s not being a little naive, a little foolish. Lately, she’s been asking herself, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
The architect has barely just gotten himself out of the debt that trailed him from Beirut to Tokyo to Providence. The architect has no savings; he’s barely got a pot to piss in. Am I crazy? I’m 46 years old! This is not the time to be fooling around! I can’t seriously be thinking about building a life with someone whose 401K is barely six months old; whose family back home in Beirut depends on him for financial assistance, and who will continue to depend on him for financial assistance until the political and economic situation there stops being so shitty, which is looking like never; and who spends what money he does have with a freedom I rarely allow myself since my divorce catapulted me into the category of people living on a single income.
Who in the room can swear on her mother’s head that she wouldn’t be having the same thoughts and doubts as King Ferdinand? Who in the room wouldn’t be a little freaked out by the idea of getting tangled up with the architect at this financial juncture of his life? Which one of you wouldn’t be wondering where you left your pendulum in order to whip it out and ask it, “Am I out of my fucking mind?”
If it is money you care about, then yes, absolutely, you are 100% out of your fucking mind.
But it’s not money you care about, remember? In which case let me ask you a question. When you say this Lebanese guy’s name, the architect, Antoine, how does he respond?
“Silence, femelle !” – Go to A.
“Dis-moi, mon amour.” – Go to B.
A. This guy’s humor is right up your alley! What are you waiting for, woman? Move his two boxes of shit, his collection of pipes, his collection of Japanese knives, his collection of shoes, and his collection of guitars with all their accoutrements over to your place pronto!
B. This guy’s brand of romanticism is precisely what you have been searching for your entire life! Quit fooling around, woman! Move that guy in! He’s young and ambitious and determined. He’s a survivor. He’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Together you’ll be fine. Money is money. Anybody can make it. Anybody can lose it. Not just anybody, however, can say Dis-moi, mon amour the way Antoine does.
The world is on fire, King Ferdinand. Keep preparing for retirement as you have been, just in case you are lucky enough not to have been dragged out to sea during a tsunami or clobbered to death by hailstones the size of baseballs or burned alive in a forest fire before making it there, but waste no more time on these worries about money. They will only prevent you from seeing the riches which are Antoine. God guided you to him for a reason; keep the path, King Ferdinand.