From the Vintage Archives:

Keeping up with the Cousin Joneses

More Money Than You've Got

By Rick Horowitz

What's got my friend riled this time is his cousin. This has happened before, mind you. Once a year, more or less, my friend's cousin blows into town, a walking, talking Lifestyle of the Rich and Fatuous. From every pore, from every story, he reeks money. By the time he's ready to leave, my friend hates him all over again. He also hates himself.

"Why do you bother to see him?" my friend's wife asks, after the damage has been done. "You know it just depresses you for days."

That's true. I've seen the post-cousin depression several times now; it's not a pretty sight. But the cousin's not the only one who can bring on this condition -- anyone with more money than my friend has will do the trick. It's just worse with the cousin because...well, just because.

We're sitting in my friend's expensive foreign car. He's got another one like it standing in his driveway. His driveway leads to his large suburban home, which is filled with tasteful furnishings and expensive artwork, a loving wife and healthy children.

And he's jealous. How jealous? "I want to throw him off the deck," he says.

It's the World of the Striven and the Driven. The population keeps increasing, or maybe it only looks more crowded lately with all those designer shopping bags and charge-card receipts flying all over the place.

There's something to be said for wanting to be top dog. It gets the juices flowing. It pushes you farther than you ever thought you could go. If everyone settled for being second- (or third-, or fourth-) best, there'd be fewer things, fewer people, out there that were any good at all.

On the other hand...

It can drive you crazy. Those juices turn to acid, and start eating you up from the inside. The problem is: Not everyone can be top dog. Not everyone has the stuff, not everyone is willing to pay the price. And what happens then?

My friend pays part of the price, at least: He stays at a job he's long since stopped liking, working hours he can't abide. That's where the money is. That's how he can afford the house and the cars and the furniture and the art.

On alternate days, he talks about chucking it all and doing something he really enjoys, something that would pay him a fraction of what he makes now.

Then he remembers the house and the cars and the furniture and the art. So he makes his peace with the situation, at least until the cousin shows up with word of his latest coup -- the stock-market tip that worked like a dream, the vacation home purchased in the very place where my friend only rents -- and shows him that even paying the price doesn't guarantee you'll be number one.

It's not enough that my friend outearns nearly everyone he knows or is ever likely to meet. He knows someone who earns more.

There's no winning that game. There's always going to be someone, somewhere, who's doing better than you are. And this someone will always find a way to tell you about it, no matter how far he has to chase you, no matter how hard you press your hands over your ears.

In his lucid moments, my friend knows all that. He can laugh at himself, at his vulnerability. By nearly everyone's standards, he has a wonderful life. How can he feel like a failure when he's seen so much success?

If only he had more lucid moments. "I hear the guy's name," he says, "and it ruins my week."