If only I was a man, I would have made a $1M yesterday. I’m a graduate of the Wharton School, didn’t you know? God damn it. You think I’m going to get out of bed for less than $250k a year, plus stock options and relocation packages and accelerated vesting schedules? Hell no.
If only I was a man, I’d be living bi-coastally, treating properties like a small family I was brooding and nurturing. A studio in New York, a bungalow in San Francisco, and one on the way, a penthouse in Miami. I would have invested in crypto early, obviously. My investment portfolio would have all kinds of fancy tech bros names stenciled into the gold-laden seams of NFT paper. Like Max Walsh and Alex Bern and all those people who I brushed shoulders with at swanky cocktail parties in FiDi. Except everyone was wearing hoodies like they were still in college. This was San Francisco, after all, where there had been and always would be a sick and twisted fascination for pre-pubescent men, like the choosing of the treble choir boys of some sacrilegious Catholic cult.
If only I was a man, my expertise would radiate out of me like the siren from an ambulance, so unperturbable and unignorable. I’d be the expert. I’d be asked forward-thinking, mindless questions on my work and productivity. How did you get that idea? What five things do you do before you take a piss in the morning? The man version of me would have the answer. The man version of me would command confidence, resilience, would thrive. A rising tide lifts all boats, he would say. He would be headstrong with entitlement. He would never feel guilty about inequality. The man version of me wouldn’t care.
The man version of me would make silly but far more informed sports metaphors that would leave older men feeling reassured when they talked to me, and excited about the future of our nation and the world. I’d make some lofty comment about seeing the world as a large playing field, an infinite game, quoting Keynes and Hayek. The man version of me would be entitled to more of it. And as I acquired more, people would coo and say, “Wow, that Tash is something special. What an amazing guy. Not only a kind person, but wicked smart as well.”
The man version of me would lift a finger and be showered with promotions and compliments about his consistent work ethic. The man version of me would smile and be called a hero. The man version of me would shake hands with people, and they would look him in the eye. The man version of me would speak, and people would listen. They’d hear what he was trying to say the first time around, like his words were the next testament of the gospels, never stopping to correct or clarify. Just the fact that the man version of me could string a sentence together would render him capable of making decisions, transferring billions, directing people and commanding the armies of the skies and the seas.
The man version of me would board a plane, and the hostesses would hesitate to see if they should usher him to the first class cabin. But he would expect that, also. He would have been told he was amazing since the day he came out of the womb. He would deserve it.
The man version of me would know and feel and bask and bathe in the extravagance of his worth.