Life is good.
You get your MBA from Pepperdine and land a job at Union Bank. Time for the lease on the 3 series Beemer.
Couple years later, you find a better position at Wells Fargo Private Equity. Time to turn in the Beemer early and pick up an Audi TT, natch.
You’re good at networking. You work the Blackberry, tip big in bars, and schmooze like mad. Women are great, but business contacts are better. It’s a man’s world.
Finally, the email comes from the hedge fund guy you knew from your frat. He wants to have lunch. You seal the deal.
For your first day at work, you’re sporting the new Versace suit, and you got a new Beemer. A serious one. A 5 series sedan to show that you aren’t a cowboy. And it sparkles.
Fast-forward to being made partner. It’s time. Shed all inhibitions. Get the car you really want. The one that’s finally about the ladies. The one that says you’re money, and you’re not family. The drunk/slut-mobile.
And you get it.
And then, six weeks later. You get the plates. Ouch!
Now those ditsy blondes that you want to pick up actually think you’re a lesser man, driving a Beemer again. After all this time! So maybe it’s time to have your assistant call the DMV to report that your plates were stolen . . .