Some months ago, I found myself at a speaking engagement at a posh resort in the hills outside San Diego, the sort with beautiful eucalyptus trees, and golf carts.

I’d brought some business attire for my panel discussion (in our family we refer to them as “grownup clothes”), but realized I’d forgotten to pack socks. All I had were the white athletic socks I’d worn with my tennies for the flight. This would not do.

I’d planned to sneak away, before my appearance, and find a store at which to buy socks. But that morning, I stumbled into the resort’s pro shop, and realized they had golf wear. For $14, I picked a nice dark pair of socks. They worked perfectly with my grownup clothes, but more importantly, they may very well be the most comfortable pair of socks I’ve ever owned.

I’ve always been skeptical of the baggage carried by F. Scott Fitzgerald’s (perhaps somewhat apocryphal) observation that the rich are different from you and me. But now I realize that they are. They have nicer socks.