Write On Grrrl

Voice of Empowerment. Not reason.

Stuff Money Can't Buy

Earlier this week, prior to the heartbreaking devastation in Oklahoma, the big story was that Powerball drawing: $590.5 million cold hard cash. One winner.

Trust. It wasn't me. Not only have I not been to Florida lately, but more importantly, drum roll please, I didn't play.

Until last Saturday night, I too always indulged in a ticket, when the jackpot rose to what can only be described as an obscene level. Two dollars and a dream and all that. 

Mine always started out firmly rooted in travel: first class tickets to visit my girlfriend in Australia. Europe. Hell, even San Antonio! (Only because that's where my bestie decided to set down roots.) Front row tickets to Essence Music Festival in New Orleans every year. Bali! Here we come. Iceland--for Andre. Puerto Rico. Again. And again.

Next, I'd spring to bring my favorite musical acts to my city. Duh! I'd convince, okay, bribe, blasts from the past like Remy Shand and George Michael to come out of hiding. I'd publish my book. Start the writing based non-profit I've been talking about for the past five years. Help some young 'uns pay for college. Buy an apartment in New York City. A genuine Tribeca loft. With a lovely roof deck. Or a brownstone in Harlem. Or both.

Yet, every single time I started spending all of my imaginary money, the same buzzkill gradually creeps in. And I'd abruptly realize how much of my outstandingly beautiful life, that I kind of dig, even in its non-millionaire stage, I'd have to give up.

Clearly, we'd have to say adios to our charming 1890's historic cottage that sits right on the street. Bye-bye to Andre's, literally, growing landscaping project, including this year's addition, three Rose of Sharon bushes, that he sat, deep into a hole, or three, to plant. We'd never feel the satisfaction of working hard towards a goal. And through a mixture of determination and fate, see them come true.

Already, in many aspects, my life has grossly surpassed my wildest expectations. I never dreamed I'd actually own a convertible. New. Hardtop, baby. Or the working antique pinball machine that sits in my kitchen. Or meet Maxwell, get interviewed by Al Roker on my 40th birthday on the Today Show or swim with dolphins. 

But it all somehow went down. Even on a relatively limited budget. 

All without winning a dime.

Indeed, you don't have to win the lottery to have a rich life. And outside of one enormous, ten year old tube tv that is cutting off a portion of the wide screen picture that the rest of the world is viewing, I really do have everything that I need. 

And more.