There are two kinds of people in this world: The people who wish they were me (or any rich man’s wife) and the people who hate women like me. It doesn’t really matter whether the idea of marrying into money appeals to or disgusts you; either way, you’ve most likely glamorized the lifestyle by buying into a host of TV network-fueled assumptions of what a “trophy wife life” looks like. If those assumptions paint a picture at all reminiscent of The Girls Next Door series at The Playboy Mansion, I can assure you they’re far from reality.
I won’t discount the “privilege” of wealth for a second, but as someone who’s found herself caged behind golden bars, with my hands tied tightly in platinum cuffs, I’m more than happy to dispel the misconceptions fueling the public’s misplaced fascination or perhaps even jealousy. I promise you, there’s not one person out there who should be jealous of this life — as counterintuitive as that might sound.
. . .
1. Lunch is on the hubby
When I first got married, my college friends — many of whom landed entry level jobs at fashion houses and PR firms — joked about my husband buying me out of corporate America. In a sense, it’s true: He convinced me that marrying him would be the best career move out there, and with his connections, I could get any job I wanted. Little did I know, he’d be the last person to facilitate my career growth — or any type of growth at all.
I also failed to realize that in life, there is no free lunch — and when your husband foots the bill, you’re still paying one way or another. And trust me — between the grunt work he relegates to me when his assistant is too busy (or asleep) to the relentless sexual favors that find their way onto my “to-do” list, every lunch he pays for is costing me a pretty penny — and oftentimes, my dignity, as well. No, this isn’t a free ride, but rather an unpaid, thankless career with no room for upward mobility and no escape route.
Sometimes, I feel like my entire place here is worthless. I think back on my college friends and the careers and lives they’ve built and earned over the past decade and a half with an unhealthy level of envy. 16 years and I don’t have a single line or skill to add to my resume. That’s the worst of all: Rich men like my husband don’t just make sure wives like me are at their beck and call; they also lock the doors and cut the phone lines, blocking every exit route to autonomy, independence, or fulfillment of our own.
2. She must be a master manipulator
A few of the wives in my circle (including some who have taken the reality TV deals) have been referred to as master manipulators. And sure, that perception probably helps those series heighten the drama and maintain their ratings. It must take a master manipulator to coerce an 8-figure CEO into a marriage certificate that grants her access to his assets, estate, and life insurance policy, right? Wrong.
This may come as a giant surprise, but more times than not, it’s the men who are the real manipulators. My husband isn’t shy about his favorite hobby: Negotiation. He brags to his friends, me, his employees, and our kids about “squeezing” adversaries into deals. He loves to see them squirm — and I make no exaggeration when I say he recounts these events with a smile on his face, motioning with his hands as if he’s wringing a towel or strangling a puppy. (My kids and his employees would most definitely attest to that reenactment.)
I’m fairly certain he approached our marriage just the same: as another deal to chase, negotiate, and win. In fact, I’ve often wondered if winning was all that mattered. Perhaps this is how all men work, but it seems like Hubby sprinted to the finish line with fancy trips and unsolicited compliments (for all of 6 months) and burned out the night we said “I do”. Once he “won” his arm candy — or in my case, baby maker — his job was done; he could leave me on his shelf and get back to far more important matters, i.e. business.
So no, I don’t believe I manipulated him for a second. Instead, I feel I’m the one coerced into a life that was grossly misrepresented. Sure, I said I’d stick by his side, but I didn’t know that meant forsaking my every goal or dream. I guess the money was supposed to be enough. For me, it doesn’t come close.
3. Money keeps you company
Being married to a jet-setting CEO who does business deals with countless international partners, we rub elbows with a lot of people. It’s not because I want to, but it’s kind of my duty to be there. Believe me — I don’t really have a choice in the matter. At least that’s what his publicist often tells us. She says it’s “good for the optics”.
I feel guilty saying this, but the pandemic was the biggest breath of fresh air I’ve had in over a decade. It put a halt to our travel and allowed me the time and space to be by myself, without an endless stream of social obligations reminding me that I’m constantly the least important person in the room. The craziest part about the stark contrast of being by myself versus attending event after event was how little of a contrast it really was. I expected to feel lonely or perhaps empty. Instead, I felt just the same. That’s when I realized the busy circuit of spending and events was just a distraction, but it didn’t make a dent in the loneliness and isolation I constantly battle.
Anyone who believes money keeps you company — or that events with rich friends and high-powered acquaintances replace genuine closeness — has probably never had either in excess.
Don’t get me wrong — there are women in my circle who drank the Kool Aid and fill their days with shopping, redecorating, and organizing meaningless get-togethers. It won’t be until they take a step off that hamster wheel of fake “busy” that they may come to realize just how alone they are. Or maybe some of them really do derive fulfillment from every swipe of the credit card for another pair of shoes to wear to another meaningless reception for another trivial business transaction we’re all called to celebrate…for another one of our husbands who are banging half the neighborhood wives and nannies and pretending we don’t all know the truth. Clearly, we aren’t cut from the same cloth.
4. Wives don’t depreciate
When my husband bought his last car, he said the best thing about buying a vintage, rare, luxury, limited-edition model of that make was that unlike most cars, they don’t depreciate. In other words, his new high 6-figure vehicle purchase will hold its value, even years down the road. He went on an entire tangent, explaining to our sons (preteens, who have a bit of a fascination with cars, despite being years from getting a permit) why some purchases depreciate and others don’t.
Normally, I would have glazed over — I’ve heard him give this spiel before to justify a host of other high-priced purchases. Not that he has to justify them — but I think he likes the self-assurance of relaying his rationale out loud. Anyhow, this time, his spiel about depreciation triggered something in me. It was convicting, and I started to think about myself like the car — except unlike his new purchase, I do depreciate. In fact, I feel that the past 16 years have been one long, continuous journey of my declining value.
My husband — and all people who excel in their careers or climb the rungs of the corporate ladder — are actively increasing their value, or appreciating, you could say. I, on the other hand, don’t have a noteworthy accomplishment to my name and haven’t added to my skill set in over 16 years. What’s an unemployed wife with a dated, limited skill set and no accomplishments to her name but a person of depreciating value? It’s depressing, but it’s true.
The saddest, worst part is that I can’t do anything about it — at least not here, not now, not in this marriage and under this roof. I feel locked in a room, desperate to be free and do something — so many things — but I can’t even break through the door. It’s like I’m screaming and no one can hear me.
5. Entitled AF
I’m not deaf to what society says (and what the media perpetuates) about trophy wives like me. They say we’re entitled, spoiled, and unappreciative of the red carpet world our wealth and the corresponding privilege has rolled out. As someone who wasn’t born into this life and did spend a full 21 years living a much more humble, relatable existence, I completely understand that perception…and to be honest, I probably thought that too. However, as someone who joined the “wealthy party” later than others, I can guarantee entitlement is far from my reality.
When you marry into wealth, sirens sound in the ears of everyone around you. Immediately, you’re the untrustworthy intruder, and all eyes are glued to the spotlight following your every move. Your husband may trust you, but the rest of the world sees you as a suspect, out to take what was never rightfully yours. That feeling of being watched and judged doesn’t go away over time; instead, it starts to seep into your very identity — or at least it did mine.
Because the world told me I didn’t earn or deserve this life, and I must have engineered some unscrupulous loophole to arrive at this ridiculous net worth, I started to believe it. In fact, I assumed that as my unshakeable identity years ago: I’m the woman who didn’t earn it, the one who stepped into a role that was never meant for her.
The immense guilt didn’t go away with the roles I took on as mother, caretaker, unofficial assistant, my husband’s travel agent, and event arm candy. Instead that guilt continued to erode my confidence more and more, year after year. The more undeserving I’ve felt, the more I’ve cowered to my husband’s every wish and command — and the more control I’ve surrendered. Worst of all is the fact that my guilt and shame are entirely warranted and true; I didn’t earn it and no, I don’t deserve a penny from my husband’s pocket — but I’ve also been barred from earning a penny of my own.
6. Overnight financial security equals happiness
I remember the day we first went house shopping. My husband already had a house, but as part of my post-wedding gift, he gave me the free reign to choose our next residence. Aside from a very generous budget (which was the equivalent of no budget cap at all), the parameters were wide open. It was almost like someone giving you a blank check and telling you to go buy a house with it in both your names, all cash. It was exhilarating, I won’t lie. Until we moved in.
I remember walking through the front door the day we got the keys, looking around at the high ceilings, ten-foot windows, and sheets of marble in every direction, and feeling as if I’d made it. That feeling lasted for the next couple months spending every waking second on calls with interior designers, walking through ostentatious décor show rooms, and embellishing the house to the nines. It was a busy, surreal couple months. At the end of it, once the house was fully furnished, we spent our first night there.
I’ll never forget the thought I had as I stared up at the chandelier over our bed: “What now?”
It was the strangest, emptiest, most unexpected, conflicting, confusing feeling I’ve ever felt — and since that night, it’s never fully left me. Getting what you want overnight — or over a couple months — and then realizing you have it in your early 20s is a weird, trippy thing. To be transparent, I think that might have been one of the lowest, scariest points in my life. It was as if seeing the fully-furnished house was the mid-life crisis-triggering instant that snapped me out of the fantasy land I’d been living since the day he proposed.
Overnight financial security does not equal happiness. It doesn’t even add to it. For me, it spurred a gnawing deep in the pit of my stomach that challenged me every day into questioning exactly what I’m doing here. I feel that I’ve been questioning that for the past 16 years, and my indecision has kept me frozen in place. This feeling is far from happiness, and it’s not something I’d wish on my worst enemy.
. . .
The Girls Next Door left out a few things
Being rich and being a trophy wife are two very different things. You can be rich and autonomous, hard-working, and deserving of every dollar in your bank account. Being a trophy wife — at least in my life experience — means trading that autonomy and satisfaction of earned accomplishment for a shared bank account and a high limit credit card. That said, don’t think for a second my husband doesn’t constantly remind me of who’s putting food on the table. Perhaps that daily blow to my confidence has further chipped away at my self worth…but I know he’s right.
Being a bunny at the Playboy mansion might have been fun for a few seasons on The Girls Next Door. However, being married to this life with kids tethering you to a man who dictates your every action and decision is suffocating at best. Worst of all, once you’re in, the only thing more painful than staying is clawing your way out. Unfortunately, it seems that’s exactly the fate I may be faced with.
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This post was previously published on Hello, Love.
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Photo credit: Confessions of a Trophy Wife