My friend Pat has been bending my ear for the last half hour on his daily struggle to make ends meet on a paltry $550,000 a year. “Call it inflation, call it what ever you want,” he says, “but the dollar just doesn’t go as far as it used to.”

His psychiatrist, his personal trainer, his dermatologist, his lawyer, his tailor, his accountant, his decorator, his hair stylist, his life coach and his tennis pro all agree, things are just too expensive.

“I know what you mean.” I said. “I had to let my life coach go months ago.”

“Because you’re unemployed?”

“I’m not unemployed. I’m a writer.”

“What’s the difference? You sit around in your pajamas all day and watch TV.” Pat is nothing if not competitive.

“I wrote something yesterday,” he said, “and it was better than anything you’ve written in a while.”

“What was that?

“A check!”

“But I’m not the one complaining about money – you are.”