What McMatters Most

Do you know anyone who lives in a McMansion? Or maybe just a "mansion," period.

I will say, I am not from the McMansion class. I am from the class that cleans the McMansions. And the "just mansions, period."

But I have spent much of the last 24 hours with a friend going through a major crisis. She lives in a McMansion. But I know her well. She is not a McPerson. She is real. She is deep. She is lovely. And she is in pain.

Me? -- Well, I am OK. I feel useful, for once. Being able to make meals for my friend, and just be there, play with her 3 year old little girl while she rests or does some paperwork. I am grateful my job is flexible enough, at times, to allow me to do more important things when they need to be done. I am convinced -- even more so, seeing the gorgeous home that my friend has -- that more money will not lead to more happiness. Rather, in this case, what hollowness. What sadness. The massive square footage and polished granite countertops and beautiful crown moulding do not insulate from utter internal disaster. The tennis court out back and the built-in swimming pool are echoes, echoes, echoes of happiness that might have been. But they are not causational of that happiness.

Today, I feel, I am the rich one.

It is a Pyrrhic victory, at best.