I have a financial advisor. There are several things that disturb me about this.
His name is Bill. The irony here does not amuse me.
I talk a lot. So does he. He also charges by the hour. Each session means that I can own one fewer pair of Manolos. I love Manolos. Bill does not appreciate fashion.
Bill has several locks on his door. He locks us in a room together when we are going over my irresponsible spending habits. Bill also does not appreciate bathing.
The last time I saw Bill, I walked into the office, locked all the locks and took my customary seat. Instead of waddling over to his side of the desk he disappeared into the back room (I have never been in the back room). He re-emerged with two cocktails.
Is it a bad sign or a good sign when your financial advisor offers you a drink? If it had been champagne, I would know that I could afford an early retirement. But scotch (which I haven't acquired the palate for) confused me.
I took the scotch and tried to appear at ease. Bill sat down and said, "You have reached the point this year where you could have bought a new car with what you've spent on clothing."
I said, "Let me know when I could have bought an airplane."
Apparently, I will never be able to retire at this rate. He asked me how I thought I was going to be able to afford all these shoes and handbags when I'm a little old lady in a wheelchair.
He's got a point.
When I'm in a wheelchair, I am going to have the cutest shoes. I will be able to wear four inch heels all day when I'm in a wheelchair.
I am going to contribute more to my 401K.