An Ironing Board For The Next Generation of Fleming

Tonight I learned with blinding certainty that one should never aspire to impress another with anything, ever.

My roommate—whose cocaine habit has made her paranoid of saying anything around me for fear that I will "blog her"—and I were leaving a club tonight, and we loitered out front with a small crowd of people when a young male pulled up to the curb in his late model Mercedes AMG something or other. It was all sparkling and decked out, and he got out of the car and stood by the driver’s side door with a pimp-like air about him.

Then down the street rolls a beautiful Lamborghini, brand-new. It pulls to the curb in front of the Mercedes, and a dude steps out of the vertical door and stands by his quarter-million dollar ride in a similar fashion.

Mr. Mercedes looked like an ass.

I drive my parents’ Saturn sedan with Pennsylvania license plates, and even I felt the right to mock him.

It made me quite content with my lot. So what if I have to put a little air into my mattress each time before I go to sleep. It’s queen-sized, and I only dished out forty bucks for it. Plus, I sleep great, which is more than can be said for Mr. Lamborghini over there, what with all the models that got into his car and will later be hogging his sheets.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m usually quite satisfied not possessing all the household luxuries most people in our country have, but last night I tried to iron my pants while I had them on.

That’s going to have to change.