Your Friend's Yacht is Probably a Rental

Alright, pull up a chair. Today, we need to talk about our collective, multigenerational obsession: Keeping up with the Joneses. It's a sickness, and my generation may have been patient zero. 

Let's be honest. We Baby Boomers got really into accumulating stuff. Part of it was noble, I suppose. We wanted to build a secure retirement and leave something behind for our kids. But a huge part of it—the part that now causes sleepless nights for many—was about the show. The bigger house, the shinier car, the boat that was just slightly longer than the neighbour's. We wanted to look successful, and we weren't afraid to go into debt to buy the costume. 

The result? A whole lot of my peers are now staring down the barrel of retirement, chained to a mortgage they can't pay off, wondering how they'll keep the lights on. 

I used to think this particular brand of madness was a Boomer speciality. A weird hangover from the post-war boom. But then I look at you, my dear Gen X and Millennial friends, and I see you've taken our bad habit and given it a 21st-century upgrade. And frankly, your version is even more dangerous. 

At least when we bought a house or a yacht we couldn't afford, we had a physical asset. A thing that, in a pinch, could be sold to recover some of the money. It's hard to repossess a memory. 

You guys are showing off with things that vanish into thin air. Your social media feeds are a highlight reel of borrowed fun. It’s a relentless parade of Michelin-star dinners, infinity pools in Bali, and weekend trips to places I’d need a second mortgage to visit. It looks like every single one of your friends is a secret millionaire, and it makes you wonder, "What am I doing wrong?" 

Let me tell you a little story. 

Years ago, long before the internet, I was an expat working in a sunny, tropical place. I fell in with a group of other expats, and we’d often go out for dinner. The conversation around the table was always a performance. Everyone would talk about their fabulous travels, the five-star hotels they frequented, the exotic adventures they’d just had. I was a bit baffled, feeling like a provincial guy who’d stumbled into a secret society of globe-trotting sophisticates. 

This went on for a while, until I had the chance to visit a few of these new friends at their homes. And I saw the truth. Behind the closed doors, away from the public performance, they were living simply. Modestly. The high-flying talk was just that—talk. A carefully constructed facade for public consumption. 

I think about those people every time I scroll through Facebook or Instagram today. I see the perfect couple clinking champagne glasses on a sunset cruise, and I think, "I bet they ate instant noodles for a month to afford that." I see the epic ski trip photos and wonder if they're sleeping on a friend's floor. 

Here’s my advice, and it comes from a place of pure, time-tested pragmatism: Stop trying to keep up. The Joneses are faking it. They always have been. The only thing that’s changed is the technology they use to project their fantasy. 

Blowing your future retirement on a single, photogenic vacation is a fool's game. You are trading long-term peace of mind for a handful of temporary 'likes' from people who are also probably faking it. 

So, if you absolutely must play the game, learn from my old expat friends. Get good at telling stories. Master the art of the strategic photo. Learn to make a simple backyard barbecue look like an exclusive culinary event. 

In other words: Fake it. Because going broke for real to impress a bunch of fakers is the stupidest retirement plan of all.