My 11th grade daughter showed up with a trust-fund kid one night with no warning. I had TV flashbacks of Logan from Gilmore Girls.

I was shocked as she introduced this boy she barely knew but I sighed with relief when I made the assumption he was decidedly gay.

Red slacks. Hair just so. Really polite and mannerly, and actually able to carry on an intelligent conversation to boot. He posed no threat. I could breathe, knowing this could be a nice, lifelong friendship – safe in its asexuality. Whew.

Later that night, before she knew he was a trust-fund kid, she said, “He’s one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. All the guys my age are really boring.”

I’d never heard her say that before. But again, it was safe. He’s gay. Another bullet dodged, another threat averted.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

I quickly learned the next night, when he picked her up in the classic Rolls Royce for dinner, the Jag the evening after that, and the Lincoln Continental one morning for breakfast (as well as a number of other classic/collector-type mobiles) that he indeed was not gay.

Insert hyperventilating episode here.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve always said that I don’t care if my daughter hooks up with a purplish alien and he’s two-feet tall, just so long as he’s kind and treats her well. Those are my only conditions. In theory. But the thing is, turns out, I’m a bit prejudiced when it comes to the extremely moneyed crowd.

It’s why I almost derailed my child’s education because I couldn’t stomach her going to a private school. I believed in public education until it ultimately failed her. It was the first of many gulps I’ve had to swallow as a parent.

I’d gone to a private school in preschool and kindergarten and hated it. I was sworn to no private schools until I wasn’t. Hence, my daughter now attends the oldest, most-moneyed private school in the state where we live. And the irony is, the parents and the kids are some of the nicest, unassuming, unpretentious, and on some level, most-welcoming nerds you could ever meet.

And yet my stuck-up attitude persisted. That is until the universe provided another opportunity (as it always does) to challenge none other than me and my prevailing prejudices.

So unlike many parents who (trust me, I’ve witnessed this firsthand) become giddy with glee and more googly-eyed than their child over said trust-fund kid, I am more like Lorelai on Gilmore Girls. I’d prefer that my own little Rory have a real life, one without blue-blood drama.

Here’s why:
1) I don’t want my daughter to be dependent on anyone but herself.
2) I want her to find her own passion in life, not be caught up in someone else’s.
3) And the real clincher, I’m terrified that old money could trap her in a gilded cage and I want my daughter to soar without any restraints or constraints. (Cases in point: Princess Di, Grace Kelly, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis – the list is long.) Did money free them? Nope.

There it is. The truth. Or, I guess, it’s my truth. I want my daughter to find her passion and to make her way in this world without the assistance of a man. I want her to find her own wings and fly free as a bird.

Thankfully, due to being the unfailingly fickle soul she is at 17, this likely will be just one of many friendships/heartbreaks she’ll experience, one more lesson learned, one more devastating something that gets her one more step (of millions) closer to finding herself.

And yet, it would be so much simpler if this particular trust-fund kid was gay. Problem and heartache solved.


(This author has chosen to whine about rich boys anonymously)


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