My God, He Bought Me a Peleton

You can see the fear in my eyes.

Here it is, Christmas morning. I come downstairs expecting a Swedish vacation, or at least a Swedish pool boy and there's that exercise bike, sitting there like a throne of doom. I slowly give my husband a confused stare, and I see something in his wavering smile and glassy eyes. He's thinking that I've gained a pound, that it's the start of my physical decline from banging trophy wife to obese shrew. I grab my phone and immediately start recording my enthusiasm as I mount the bike. There are tears in my eyes and I don't know why. Maybe it's because I know that this Peleton comes with a paid nutritionist and a lot of comments to the effect of "did you really need to eat that?" Maybe it's because I have so much--seriously, check out the view on this multimillion dollar mansion--and yet it feels like I have so little. It's crazy, you know, young, vital people like us. Most people my age don't have a nanny to watch the younglings or a trust fund that is never depleted. Perhaps these young people are even envious of a Peleton, hypothesizing that the purchase of a high-end exercise bike is equivalent to a purchase into my income bracket. Lemme tell you something, people: spiritual materialism isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's difficult being rich and hot. You have to do the maintenance or it all comes tumbling down faster than a house of cards. My husband will stop loving me the minute I gain an extra ounce of fat. Pretty soon, he'll have fired our nanny and replaced her with one ten years younger than myself. That prenup I signed is iron-clad, so there's no way I'm getting any of this in divorce. So that's why there are tears in my eyes when I hop on the Peleton and start my journey. Some roads lead to other places, while other are circular. I just want to keep what I have.