Being 27 sometimes scares me. Like, I’m way too old to hit on college lacrosse players anymore, I get scared about turning 30, and I question whether people will think I’m a pedophile if I step foot into Abercrombie or Forever 21.
When I see the shit that Miley Cyrus says and does, I think “that’s it.” I no longer drink four days a week. I no longer have a level of tolerance that allows me to boot and rally, and more often than not I pick movie night with wine and my roommate over a crazy Saturday night that requires heels and tight fitting clothing.
I am old. Fuck.
But then, as I’m about to invest in a walker and some Depends, God throws me a reminder than just because I’m not 20 anymore doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be happy. And this week, that reminder was in the form of dear, sweet, misunderstood Rich Girl Rachael Sacks.
Long story short Ms. Sacks took to Thought Catalog earlier this week and wrote a hilariously self-indulgent and self-pitying article about people judging her because she has money. I had to read it twice to get the point of it.
Basically, she had some shopping bags from Mulberry—a store I don’t know—and was buying groceries at Gristedes when she claims she overheard two cashiers talking about how they went to state schools to save money. Then, they didn’t say goodbye to her. Which, obviously, in poor little rich girl world, means they were totes judging her and being super jeal of her because she has money and, in her words, one of them is “bitter ad unhappy with her own life as a cashier.”
Obviously it had nothing to do with, I don’t know, maybe a conversation the cashiers were having that had nothing to do with you, or a bad day the cashier was having, or maybe the cashier not hearing you. Nope, it was entirely because she knew that because you had all these bags you were rich. And she was jealous. I’m sure the cashier at Gristedes—which is easily one of the most expensive super markets in the city—never sees extremely wealthy people come through her lines. People who actually exude wealth via jewelry, clothing, hairstyle, and not just a bag from a store. Nope, you were the first, and to punish you for dragging your rich ass through their store and being rich and not acting poor while standing in their line, they were mean to you.
Let me start out by saying this: Fuck off. If you got to see the picture of this girl on the NY Post, several things can be deduced. One, I would never look at this girl in the street, even if she was carrying bags from high-end places I actually know like Bergdorf or Neiman Marcus, and think “Wow, she’s so wealthy.” Why? Because everything about her screams budget. Her hair, her hair color, her shitty eyebrows that look like she can't afford an eight dollar waxing. Not to mention her bad teeth.
I work as a bartender and manage to look more put together than this girl. It’s not like she scream Ivanka Trump. For someone who talks about being wealthy and her parents providing for her, it seems as though they stopped paying for things like braces, skin care and anything other than a bottle of peroxide. Before this chick goes throwing the “I’m rich and everyone can tell “ card around, maybe she should get a second opinion about what people think of, aesthetically, when they think “rich.” Because in my experience, it ain’t that.
Next comes the air of entitlement and persecution. This girl acts as though something was asked of her and in refusing to do so, something terrible happened. She acts as though people expect her to “act poor.” And in refusing to do so, people are then mean to her, like the snobby cashiers who had the audacity to talk about going to state school to save money. So effing mean, yo.
Racheal, no one asked you to act poor. Unless, that is, you correlate acting like a normal human being with “acting poor.” Your whole rant, and the subsequent secondary piece attacking people who mocked you for your lack of self-awareness, proves the old adage “money can’t buy class.” I don’t care how much money your father puts in your bank account each month. I don’t care if you go to NYU or Columbia. No one dislikes you for any of those reasons. People dislike you because you’re a cunt. Because you think money makes you who you are and because you think people are jealous because of it. Because you think you exude wealth when in reality, you exude stuck-up bitch, which funny enough, requires no money. Your pathetic attempt to cut through that snobbery by saying when you were a kid you wore clothes from Old Navy and went to McDonalds on the weekend is like me saying I visited Jamaica once and drove through the poor section so I totally understand Third World poverty. You don’t want to act poor to relate to people, but you want to throw out “not rich” concepts like Old Navy and McDonalds to prove you’re not totally vapid. It didn’t work. Sorry.
You rant that the 40-year-old haters—which, trust me even you will be one day—were all 20 once too and all made mistakes. I don’t doubt that. But you know what I didn’t do at 20? Spend any amount of time bitching that people were mean to me because they somehow knew I had money. This pathetic attempt at victimization makes me think you’re jealous of people who actually get attention FOR being poor. In your perfect world filled with Daddy’s ATM cards and cars you don’t even know the monthly payments on, you want to feel slighted, you want to feel victimized, and that’s sad. Maybe it’s because you’re 20, maybe it’s because you never had to work a day in your life because your dad cushioned your life. Or maybe it’s just because you’re a royal self-centered bitch.
Whatever it is, it makes me happy I’m not 20 anymore. It makes me happy and proud that despite my mother helping me all through college—I went to a state school so clearly I’m way jealous even though I chose Maryland over private schools like BU, BC and Loyola—I have a good sense of work ethic. That I know what it means to literally work my ass off to make rent every month and that I REALLY know what it means when someone judges you for the amount of money they think you have. I’m sure you’ll graduate and get a job somewhere bourgie like boutique PR or maybe at an art gallery, and your parents will pay for your first apartment and keep you on their heath insurance until you’re 29; you’ll still summer in the Hamptons and wear Loubitons to work. But that won’t be why people are cold to you. They’ll be cold to you, because you are a bitch. Because you unquestionably give an air not of outstanding wealth or luxury, but of snobbery enhanced by Daddy’s bank account. Of a person who thinks she makes up for in money what she lacks in class and respect. You could carry around a bag from the Salvation Army and I don’t doubt people will still look at you the way you think those cashiers looked at you. They aren’t jealous of your money, dear. They are in shock of your complete sense of “it’s all about me.” It isn’t.