Who are these people?

This past weekend, the New York Times had an article about the "Yachtini" set that's converging on Montauk. To accompany the article, there was a photo of tanned, trim, gorgeous young women in their sundresses. The article talked about the young ladies in their high heels, showing up at fancy schamcy parties where they sip expensive cocktails and mingle with the jet set.

Oh, come on. I am the jet set. And I wouldn't be caught dead hanging out with these chicks.

Here's my take on it. Many of these girls (and their counterparts, the cool, tanned guys in their deck shoes) are frauds. They're wannabe millionaires. They're hanging out in Montauk and the Hamptons, looking for millionaires willing to ditch their first wives (or their second or third wives) in exchange for the latest pretty young thing. The irony is, these gold-diggers are probably cavorting with other frauds. And if there's any poetic justice in the world, they'll end up with each other.

Or, if they get lucky and do indeed land a millionaire (who ditches his wife for them), then the millionaire deserves what's coming to him. A woman who's not marrying him for his scintillating wit and compassion, but for what's in his bank account.

Maybe I'm just not part of "the scene," living where I do in reality land, hanging out with my original spouse. But the point of having money, from my point of view, is quite simply, peace of mind. The freedom to go out to dinner whenever I want to, travel to exotic lands, and not have a mortgage. Or debt of any kind.

I look at that article about the tanned and beautiful in Montauk, and I wonder what it's like to be a millionaire man, faced with all the temptations of those lovely young things. I wonder if I'd be as foolish (and delusional) as to believe those girls would want me if I had a big zero in my bank account. I would hope that I'd remember the spouse who married me and the friends who stuck by me when I had nothing, and who remained my friends while I was building my fortune.

I hope that I'd realize that these janey-come-latelies couldn't care less about me, except for the fact I have a fortune.

This, my friends, is the secret to a millionaire's happiness. It's not the bank account. It's knowing I can count on people who love me for who I am. It's sticking with spouse number one. It's understanding that money isn't for showing off or for acquiring a bigger house than the other guy.

Money is the freedom to pursue your passions. Travel, books, music, whatever.

It's not the tanned young things in their sundresses.