Almost Famous

08/2005

It’s official. I was born under a lucky star. Recently, my face appeared in a big-time catalog. Page 62, upper left corner, Crate&Barrel. My image is so tiny it’s almost sexy. At least that’s what I tell myself.

It reminds me of the hair that grows from the tip of my nose. This hair is so fine and so blonde it’s almost pretty – at least that’s what I tell myself (and train my associates to say should they dare bring up the subject which smart associates know is a very bad idea).

I’ve said this before, but let me repeat: I hide behind a winking line drawing because (in my real life) I handle large sums of money – other people’s money. People who would not be amused (even a little bit) by my playful side and couldn’t care less whether I have a date for Saturday night this week, next week, or in the following four decades.

Then there’s you. Beautiful people who, once a month, read this column and lose sleep over my love life. You don’t care about my business. You care about my heart.

When I’ve gone three months without a date; when I get dumped by the man of my dreams; when I’m carrying excess baggage, I think of you. I remember that there are lots of people pulling for me, tossing and turning night after night, hoping and praying for the calm of sincere love to drift my way. You do this without regard for market fluctuations.

You don’t want me to turn your $5,000 portfolio into $3,000,000. You don’t want me to drop everything to tend to your insecurities. You don’t want me to stay up all night studying an emerging technology to determine if it’s the investment for you. Right?

You want me to be happy and loved. That’s it.

At least…that’s what I tell myself.

Thanks a million. I was born under a lucky star. It’s official.