Rich People Have Stairs

Recently, I saw a question posted on Facebook that went something like this:

When you were a kid, what was something other families had that made you think they were rich?

When I was young, I believed that anyone with a two-story house was loaded, and I always got super-excited if I was invited to stay over with someone who lived in one. I mean, HELLO, there were STAIRS…that you could slide down. And why, when I got there, did we spend time playing games or watching television when there were stairs just waiting for a kid to come slide on them? How did those kids make time for things like eating, sleeping, and homework? Why did any of them have perfect attendance records at school when they could’ve faked illness, stayed home and slid? It made absolutely no sense, but I figured that people rich enough to live in a house with stairs must just be oblivious to all of the perks that come with great fortune.

Then, I grew up and discovered that the two-story/must be rich theory was entirely off base. I have stairs, and guess what? I’m not rich. I also learned that having stairs in your house isn’t the same as having an indoor waterslide. I don’t think I’ve ever slid down my stairs (on purpose). Well, except for that one time that I did kettlebell exercises for the first time, and basically had no choice. I also discovered that I was wrong about the things I’d always equated with being rich; things like nice cars, expensive clothes, and two-story houses. I could go into the whole, “family and friends are what make a person rich,” but you guys already know about that, and it doesn’t need repeating.

There were a lot of comments on that post, such as: having more than one bathroom, having cable television, having a canopy bed, a color television or a television in your room, a swimming pool, and a Nintendo, to name a few. I was merrily scrolling along, reading most of them with a bit of 80s-kid nostalgia, nodding my head in agreement, when I got to a comment that brought my scrolling finger to a complete stop—it said, “Having heat.”

My heart sank. I know the person who wrote that comment, and I know that what she wrote was true because I remember . . .

In middle school, I met her through some mutual friends and had visited her house with them once or twice. While I can’t remember specific details, I remember going into her home and instantly realizing that even though our house had no stairs and no swimming pool, we had much more than this girl’s family had. All of the plumbing in our bathrooms worked, and every bathroom had a locking door. Our living room was carpeted, our bathroom floors were tiled, the kitchen had linoleum, and the rest of the house was covered in freshly buffed, shiny hardwood floors. Were the floors in her home old, bare wooden planks? I think so.

Although ours was the only house in the neighborhood (or possibly the whole country) that still had rotary-dial telephones, we had two of them, and they both worked. Did her family have a working phone? I don’t think so.

When Christmas-time rolled around, my sister and I insisted on putting the made-in-the-1950s, artificial Christmas tree in the living room corner on the wall opposite the front window. We did this with hopes that passersby wouldn’t catch a glimpse and see how ugly it was, with its giant lights accompanied by even more hideous aluminum flower-shaped reflectors. I wonder if that girl’s family had a tree at all?

I remember one Christmas, begging my dad for Jordache jeans. I got one pair for Christmas, even though it greatly pained him to spend “Thirty dollars on a damn pair of dungarees.” I wanted them for the same reason most middle-school girls want specific clothes—the desire to fit in—it seemed like all the other girls at school wore designer jeans, and I was terrified that whatever off-brand I had would be an invitation for teasing. I’ll bet she would have liked some designer jeans, too. Fortunately, however, my off-brand clothes were clean, and so was I. We had a washing machine, a dryer, and I showered every morning before school—I never had to worry about being bullied or teased for smelling bad because I had the luxury of clean clothes and a hot shower. I’m not sure if she had hot water, a washing machine, or a dryer.

Back then, while I’m sure I must have felt bad for her, I was twelve or thirteen, so I’m betting it was probably a fleeting emotion. Like many kids at that age, my focus was primarily on myself. Does he like me, too? She’s too pretty and popular to want to be my friend. Brussel sprouts—gross. I’m getting fat. Please, please, PLEASE, Dad, can I get a pair of Jordache for Christmas?

Forty years ago, while I was busy envying the rich people with their fancy stairs and their Jordache jeans, I was mentally unable to comprehend the idea that someone might envy me over the things that I took for granted daily. I probably still take too much for granted.

But then I go online. I see that, “Having heat,” is what she perceived as being rich, and I become instantly aware of how blessed I am that I have never been without heat. Or indoor plumbing. Or clean clothes. I’ve never gone hungry.

Then I think to myself, “I guess I’m kind of rich, after all.” From what I can tell, she is, too. And I can’t help but think that if there’s anyone who knows what it truly means to be rich, it’s her.