Are you sure you want to win the lottery?

When I was young, the lives of the superrich impressed me. I didn't know anyone wealthy, but I did know what it was like to be rich. We had a TV.
Unlike the people in my neighborhood who walked or drove themselves, prosperous TV characters hired chauffeurs or hailed taxis. They also attended cocktail parties, even the words exotic and mysterious for me. My family didn't drink cocktails. Our parties—if you could call supper with my relatives a party — never required tuxedos or frothy dresses and high heels.
I liked to imagine myself wearing stiletto heels and an expensive gown with spaghetti straps as I hailed a taxi and headed to a cocktail party.
I was quite old before I rode in a taxi. Many years ago to celebrate my husband's 40th birthday, we went to the Boston Marathon with John and Janice Branstrom. Now, if you're going to watch husbands run a marathon, Janice is the most entertaining person you could find. But she did not "hail" a taxi for me. No one did. We unceremoniously chose one from a line at the airport.
When I crawled in, I was astounded. The seat covers were ripped; the car, dark; the driver, an unshaven man who pulled out of that airport like a drunk driver in a B-movie car chase. In the heart of downtown Boston traffic, his trunk lid flew up, and he jerked to a stop. He got out, slammed the lid, got back in, and cursed under his breath.
That pretty much ended my infatuation with taxis.
As for elegant parties, my husband and I have been to a few, not that memorable.
Last spring we were invited to our niece's posh wedding. The invitation suggested we stay in a downtown Savannah hotel. My husband dropped the invitation into our mail basket. "I'll find something outside Savannah that won't be overpriced."
The wedding weekend we stopped at our $35-a-night cheaper motel room to get dressed. I wanted to wear a cocktail dress, but am cold natured, so, instead, put on a Sunday dress with long sleeves and the highest heels I owned (1 1/2 inches). We drove to Savannah.
When we pulled up to the hotel, a uniformed young man appeared to park our car. Now, we could see the outdoor lot from our car. And my husband can parallel park a van in barely enough space for a Mini Cooper. But he handed key and tip to the valet. Self-parking was not a choice.
As we walked through nighttime Savannah I thoroughly enjoyed the party atmosphere — people eating outside, singing in the streets, chatting in the darkness. I longed, though, for my Nikes.
After the wedding, we went to the reception. Every woman's heels were higher than mine; every dress, more low-cut, more sleeveless, more glitzy. I did enjoy hobnobbing with the wealthy, even though — except for family — no one actually talked with me.
I hadn't had supper, so I headed to the long tables flanked by tuxedoed men. Though the hors d'oeuvres looked elegant, I prefer grilled cheese to food I don't recognize, and I like almost anything better than caviar. Due to my upbringing, I don't enjoy cocktails, so I drank water.
We left early. I figured we could talk with family more comfortably elsewhere, and my husband thinks staying up late is foolish. From all that standing around with glamorous people, my feet hurt.
When we got to the hotel entrance, no one was there.
Since I couldn't keep up in those heels, I waited while he searched for a valet. I stared at our car, which I could have reached in five minutes.
I rested on one foot, then the other. I paced.
He returned in 20 minutes. "They found a valet," he said. Five minutes later a young man appeared and headed (slowly) to our car.
I do not want to glamorize poverty, especially now when so many are suffering real deprivations. I do not want to be poor, nor do I want others to be poor.
But I don't want to join the ranks of the superrich either. I don't want to ride with a paid driver, wear uncomfortable anything, wait for someone to wait on me.
"I'm glad you're not a CEO, even an honest one," I told my husband when we finally got in our car.
He drove expertly into the city streets. "Not half so glad as I am," he said.

Maggie McKinney, a member of Morganton Writers' Group, reports that she is glad she has never won the lottery. She's even gladder that she has never bought a ticket.