The Burglar & the Socialite

Kathy had a perfect little life. She had plenty of money. She had no worries and no cares. Everything in her life was going along perfectly.

To look at all that she had materialistically, anyone would envy her lifestyle. The house, the cars, the trips, the clothes, and the jewelry, she had it all. Fortune without fame and flying beneath the radar is always better in life than showing off and bragging about what you have. It's best not to draw attention to yourself, especially when you've had a colorful past. Let's just say, should her husband decide to run for political office one day, with so many of her skeletons ready to burst out of her closet, he wouldn't have a prayer of being elected with her by his side. The tabloid press would dig up enough information about her and nude photos of her during her wild and crazy college and socialite party days that their lives would be forever ruined.

Fortunately, for her, her husband harbored no such political aspirations. The only aspirations he harbored were collecting as many of those small, green pieces of paper that had Benjamin Franklin's photo on them. His God was money and he worshiped it. He worked as an investment banker and recently, a few years ago, had become a partner in the firm. They lived in a perfect house right on the 9th hole of the golf course of an exclusive country club.

When the banks did well and the economy boomed, he made money. When the banks failed and the economy busted, he made money. With his money needle pegged to global financial markets and growing economics, instead of national political agendas, no matter what happened, he made money with his investments around the world.

A bad day for Kathy was when she forgot to wear her pearls to lunch with the girls. Big, expensive, and just perfect, she loved her exquisite pearls. They were her gift from her husband when he made partner. If she had to pick just one item of jewelry to save in a fire, that one item would be her exclusive pearls.

Married for twenty-five years last June, she had a 23-year-old daughter, named Mandy, and a 21-year-old son, named Randy. Kathy just turned 45-years-old and was at the pivotal point in her life where she was considering having some cosmetic surgery done to freshen her look and give her a more youthful appearance. Pressured by her friends, who already had the surgery, she didn't want a surgeon taking a knife to her face, no matter how skilled he was. Having known many woman, who have had a facelift, she can always recognized someone who has had the surgery done.

Accustomed to her beauty preceding herself to help open doors and to make her the center of attention, with her imagined sudden lack of interest from the opposite sex, especially from those men younger than her, she was just beginning to feel her age. In her uncharacteristic lowered self-esteem and wounded self-confidence, even though she thought differently about herself, whenever men young and old saw her, she was thought of differently by others that the opinion that she had of herself. Whenever she walked in a room, she was still a head turner and a conversation interrupter.

Only, when she looked in the mirror now, she imagined what she'd look like in ten years or in twenty years. She was beginning to look how she remembered her mother looked, when her mother was her age now. It was a frightful horror because, at the same time, she remembered what she looked like ten and twenty years ago. As was everyone and everything else on Earth, yet so much more difficult for a woman, she was getting older and every time she peered in the mirror, she imagined she saw new wrinkles and new sags.

Even though aging was inevitable, especially when her mind felt so much younger, she needed time for her brain to catch up with her body. Even though she looked middle aged, she still felt so young. She felt no different now that she was in her forties than she did, when she was in her twenties. Certainly, she didn't feel 45-years-old and she still possessed much of the vibrant energy and vitality that she had in her twenties, especially when on the golf course or the tennis court. She had yet to slow down and adjust to a more sedentary life. A wakeup call to how much better she looked than most women her age, women who didn't have the time or the money to pamper themselves with designer clothes, hair, makeup, creams, lotions, and spas, she needed a minor adjustment in her perception of her age and how others perceived her. She needed a reality check.

Her only consolation was that she was aging with the rest of her peer group. Only, sometimes, whenever she was down on herself and in a funk, unbeknownst to her, she was aging better than the rest of them. Certainly, even without having plastic surgery, a non-smoker who exercised regularly and who watched her diet, seldom drank, and took care to wear sunscreen. when out in the sun, she looked ten years younger than her age and much younger than all of her friends her age and younger even.

Nonetheless, feeling sad that life was passing her by, while she sheltered herself in her little cocoon of luxury, where did the time go? Twenty years rushed by with the blink of an eye. As if it were yesterday, she still remembered being newly married. It wasn't that long ago that she was walking her children in a stroller, chauffeuring them back and forth to grade school, and attending high school and college graduations. It wasn't that long ago that her husband made his first million dollars, moved them from upstate New York, where she was from and where she met him, to this lovely closed community and exclusive gated estate in northeastern Massachusetts. She couldn't believe that was more than a dozen years ago.

She remembered that she looked good, real good, ten years ago. She wished she could have always stayed thirty-five forever. She loved that age. She was old enough not to be bothered with all the immature bullshit, but not too old that she still couldn't enjoy all the immature bullshit.

Some of her friends have already been under the knife and she envied the results, but cringed at the pain, the bruising, the swelling, and the forced isolation, while they heeled. Was it all worth it? She didn't think so, at least, not for her it wasn't. Blessed with good genes, she was glad that she didn't have to do all that to still look young and attractive. For the time being, she was content with her skills at applying her makeup. Maybe in a few years, she'd reconsider. Maybe in a few years, going the way of Heidi Klum and so many other celebrities, who weren't vain enough to have surgery and Botox unnaturally alter their looks, maybe she just wouldn't care.

She felt that plastic surgery was a vicious cycle that had to be repeated in five to ten years, too. Always, there was the risk that something could tragically go wrong. Always there was a chance that they could make a life altering or fatal mistake on the operating table. Reluctantly, she decided, she'd rather age gracefully without having a surgeon pull, nip, and tuck her skin beneath her hairline and back behind her ears. How dreadful to have her face pulled so tight that it hurt to smile. How embarrassing to know that everyone knows that she was vain enough to have plastic surgery.

Still, she had to give her brave, albeit vain friends credit. They looked ten years younger. They looked rested. They looked happy. Only, she was nervous. She had heard some of the horror stories of botched surgeries and she was vain, but not vain enough to put herself in the hands of a surgeon's knife. Still, her friends pressured her to go ahead and, at least, have a consultation. She promised she would, but never did.

She was friends with Christine, Ellen, Audrey, and Brenda. They were all members in good standing of their little gang of women, who looked like one another, dressed like one another, thought like one another, and talked like one another. They even had a gang name, The Rich Bitches, and a gang sign, when out on the town shopping, they'd flash their American Express Black cards, the ultimate credit cards that had an unlimited credit line.

They lunched together, shopped together, and talked about their perfect little lives to one another. It was a glorious existence being rich and not having to work at a mundane job all day, while their husbands made money. Able to hire people to clean their perfect homes, care for their lush lawns, filter their posh pools, cook their delicious meals, pamper their precious pets, and chauffer them, wherever they needed to go, they were free to indulge themselves at the spa for hair, makeup, massage, and skincare treatments.

Except for the young men she dated in college, once married with all the naked, sexual parties behind her, Kathy never had sex with anyone other man than her 52-year-old husband, Robert. Although, define sex, that is. As was Bill Clinton's definition of sex, she never had penetration from any man other than her husband, since she's been married. In Clinton's case, even though he didn't believe that an exchange of fluids constituted sex, Kathy did and in all the years of her marriage she has never exchanged fluids with anyone other than her husband. Certainly, there have been episodes of touchy feely, especially when alcohol was involved, but she was careful not to ruin her reputation for the foolishness of a flirtatious fling.

She was a good wife and a good mother. She was Robert's trophy wife and he was her security blanket. Robert liked how they looked together. An average looking man, short and stout, and looking much like the stereotypical banker and, but for the top hat, he looked a bit like the man that appears on the cover of the Monopoly game. No doubt, he was happy that his money could buy him the affections and loyalty of such a beautiful and charming woman, who looked as good as did Kathy. She appreciated how he kept her in the lifestyle that she had grown to love. In the way that there is someone for everyone, they not only deserved one another but also they were made for one another, the socialite with the rich man.

Often, her husband commented that they looked much better together than did Senator McCain and his wife, Cindy. McCain was his idol, a political measure of the man that gives insight into Robert's political preference. She, on the other hand, certainly hoped they looked much better together than Senator McCain and his wife, Cindy, as Senator McCain was twenty years older than Robert and Cindy McCain was nearly ten years older than she was. Moreover, she preferred Obama over McCain. She always thought that Michele Obama was always so poised and charming. Still, she understood his preference of an older man with a younger woman, albeit Robert was almost eight years older than she was, whereas John McCain was eighteen years older than his wife.

Remaining forever faithful, until death do you part, she never cheated on him. She never even thought about cheating on him. Although, there was that young tennis pro at the club that she was so smitten with and a new, handsome golf pro, too, who she found interesting enough to flirt with, while having him give her some pointers with her game. Still, she'd never do anything more than masturbate in the bathtub, while imagining them tying her up, spanking her ass, and forcing her to have sex with them. Oh, how this little vixen loved to vex men, while playing the virginal victim. Oh, how this socialite of a woman, so wanted to be bound and disciplined.

To be continued...