Perceptions

The stakes escalate. The reality behind matter. What does it matter really?

Outfitted in black: slacks, Tory Burch sweater with brass signature buttons, Longchamps purse. I seem the paragon of ample accounts. But no. Not really. Just the appearance. Not the reality. Perceptions.

Italian leather portfolio. A sexy, confident lemony yellow. Laptop and files packed neatly inside giving it weight. The semblance of professional chic. On her way to a client meeting. Not. Perceptions.

An LV bag. Gorgeous design. Wallet slim. All the right credit cards. Darling regiment striped black-brown Fendi cosmetic bag concealing make-up from Walmart aisles and Rite-Aid bins. Seemingly plush. Knowingly broke. Perceptions.

A quaint antique house in the village. Stunningly painted. Modestly landscaped. The living room and dining salon adorned with 16th century hand painted engravings. Lovely Chippendale camel-back love seats. A four hundred year old Oushak. Original oils framed lovingly. Riches. Hardly. Perceptions.

Thick photograph albums illustrating journeys across the globe. Five star hotels. Movie starred lobbies. Private touring into the vineyards. Extravagance. Hotels.com bookings. Air mile fueled crossings. Perceptions.

Brilliant discourse. Witty interjections. The gourmet supper guests elbows touching around a Charleston-inspired mahogany oval scalloped table on anthacus carved pedestal legs. Jovial banters. Candlelit diners clinking glasses of bubbly Champagne. Economy bottles of sparkling Chilean wine. Frivolous? No indeed. Perceptions.

Cheers to the smoke and mirrors gaily shrouding the anguish felt deep in the pit of my emptying pocketbook.