Freedom

At the Passover table, amidst conversations about freedom and matzoh and pass the brisket,

"Hey, Donna, see the movie Friends with Money. You'll love it," Lloyd said, and twelve privileged heads turned.

I cringed, sitting amongst the privileged born to jewelry, real estate, and first down-payments. Lucky jump starts on the American Dream.

I was the black sheep at the table, and, yet, as a long-term friend and Jewish woman, I belonged.

I'd heard about Friends With Money, which was shot in L.A. It's about rich friends hanging out with poor friend, Jennifer Aniston (a joke to have her in that role) talking rich people talk about their issues in front of her--to laughs. Huh? This movie hits too close to home to be ha ha funny. Especially since I became a writer, a profession lucrative only in my dreams.

So at this Passover seder, under a full moon night where bougenvilla clung to the window frame of my friend's fortieth property, I sat across from my friend of twenty years, who owns apartments, and houses, and land, and anything else she dreams up because she's a manifestor, and I thought: I don't need to see Friends With Money. I live it. Which may be Lloyd's point, but let's not rub it in, representing what I don't have. I'm okay, focusing on what I do.

This night my friend sparkled with diamonds and tasteful jewels on manicured fingers, which I didn't much notice until Lloyd mentioned Friends with Money. And then I noticed I wore no jewels on unmanicured hands. And my property portfolio consists of a Yamaha upright piano and one car, no debt (my pride and joy), while my girlfriend has debt and tenets to pay off multiple properties, so one day she'll be more set than today.

I never have debt, because I don't like owing anything to anyone, which according to rich people is a mistake, since there's good debt and bad debt. And good debt is real estate. If I ever leave L.A., I'll afford good debt. But California is not set up for people like me to keep up with the Jones's. So I enjoy no debt, and listen to others renovate new kitchens, floors, decks, bathrooms, landscaped gardens...

And back to the seder.

"What does freedom mean to you?" The question was posed to family and friends on the evening marking Jews escape from Pharoah's bondage thousands of years ago.

"Being an American."

"Having an open heart to love."

"Having choices."

And I thought to myself, having freedom to have nothing.

Yes, I'm free.

Free from rich people's worries: The contractor said it'd take X days, and it took YYY! I'm not paying him one more penny! The tenet is moving but he didn't pay for the damage his dog did! I'm getting a lawyer! If I have to stand up for my rights, a lawsuit it will be! Rich people worry about these things, and more.

Frequently they get plastic surgery because they can, and let's face it, plastic surgery goes wrong all the time. One bad face lift begets another, and another, and then your face is all over the place. You should see faces in L.A., they're up and down, pulled back, sagging forward, walking in and out of plastic surgeons Beverly Hills offices for their next fix.

I thought about that movie, Friends with Money, which I have no intention of seeing because I don't need to accent what I don't have amongst those with plenty of... Wait. What am I talking about?

America is great because we have freedom to make something of ourselves, to figure out how to make money, or volunteer to help others, or just spend a rainy afternoon writing a blog. This is luxury. This is

FREEDOM!

It's priceless. Special. The American dream.

Who says value must come with a dollar price tag?

Thank goodness we escaped from bondage then and now.

Life's good.

I appreciate my own fortune in a great dance, beautiful music played on my piano, vibrant health every time I hike and go to the gym, and sharing a scrumptious home-cooked meal with a loyal, very good friend.

Freedom.