8:15 A.M.

I wake up fifteen minutes late, so I’m already in a bit of a snit. It seems Camila did not set my Pura to blast Capri Blue Volcano at exactly 8 A.M. like I asked, so instead I awake to the subtle scent of Linens and Surf, which is so obviously an afternoon scent profile that it takes me several long minutes of screaming before I figure out what time it is.

8:30 A.M.

Obviously I have to dismiss Camila but not before I have her insert my matcha and collagen rectal suppository. It’s the size of a mango and terribly uncomfortable, but if it’s good enough for Tamra Judge, it’s good enough for me. I wave goodbye to Kylie as she leaves for school. She flips me off from the Rover.

9:00 A.M.

Time to move my body! Right now I’m super into Body by Hephaestus, which is power yoga while wearing a weighted tactical vest in a 140-degree room. Torturous? Yes. But it costs $350 an hour, and last week a gal went into cardiac arrest halfway through Sun Salutation A, so you know it’s good.

11:00 A.M.

After a shower and my daily injectables, I swing by my husband’s law office to make an appearance. I know what you’re thinking: “I see, she married into money.” Well, think again, because I’m the breadwinner in this family! Eight years ago Henry was just the fourth-best personal injury attorney in Central Missouri, until I took three Ambien and drove my Elantra straight into the Lake of the Ozarks and we scored the biggest negligence payout since the Exxon Valdez. Our wealth is all me, baby, and all I had to do was be legally dead for thirteen minutes.

Henry is not at the office. Neither is his secretary, but I’m sure that’s just a coincidence because he’s told me multiple times he’d never bang a brunette.

12:45 P.M.

I stop by the Dickerson Park Zoo to deliver a two million dollar check and officially dedicate the Henry and Shannon Prewitt Primate Rehab Center. It’s a small price to pay to save critically endangered animals, and to prevent them from pressing charges against Kylie, who allegedly stole a crested capuchin during a school field trip. Allegedly is a key word here, because the only evidence they have is security footage and sworn witness affidavits.

3:30 P.M.

I meet Ellen for drinks and apps at JB Hooks. Ellen orders oysters and offers me one, and of course I accept because to decline would be akin to arriving bare-headed to the Iroquois Steeplechase. So what if I have a severe shellfish allergy? My throat begins to close as the dessert wine arrives, but no one is the wiser.

4:40P.M.

I get home in the nick of time, plunging the EpiPen into my thigh just as my vision fades to black. I collapse on the chaise lounge, catching my breath. Kylie walks by looking concerned, then says my filler makes my lips look like a crested capuchin’s asshole.

5:00 P.M.

Henry texts to say he’s working late and not to wait up, then reminds me I need something to wear to the Champions of Hope Gala next month. I get on Net-A-Porter and search for black tie-appropriate dresses. The first one that appears is stunning—a gold silk cowl neck maxi from Saint Laurent. My finger hovers over Buy Now until I squint (my vision is still recovering from my sclera bleaching) and realize with a horrible jolt that it’s on SALE. Jesus Christ, can you imagine what Paulette Calloway would say if I bought something at a discount? I’d be the disgrace of Miller County society, worse than when someone spotted Mary-Catherine eating lunch at a Chipotle!

5:06 P.M.

Once my heart rate slows, I spot my mistake: the drop down menu in the top right is set to sort by “Recommended.” WHEW, that was a close call. I change it to “Sort By Price: High to Low,” as a woman of means rightly should. Listen, there was a time when I had to bargain hunt—buying single ply toilet paper and gas station wine. But that time is no more.

What is now at the top of the results is a beaded Oscar de la Renta mini with cap sleeves that I’m certain will make my arms look, as Henry says, “like two condoms filled with uncooked biscuit dough.” But at least when someone asks, I can tell them how much I spent, which at $15k is just slightly less than the black market price of a crested capuchin. Allegedly.

I sigh, and click “Add to Cart.”