I once heard someone argue that the old adage “you can’t have it all” really isn’t true.

You can, in fact, have it all, the guy said —you just can’t have it all at the same time.

This in itself is not really something worth pondering for longer than it takes the traffic light to change or the checkout line at the grocery store to budge. It does, however, quite possibly tell us everything we ever really needed to know about Paris Hilton.

Allow me to explain.

Like anyone who has ever spent the equivalent of a car loan on those glossy magazines for sale at the grocery store, I have often wondered what intrinsic value there is in knowing everything about Paris and the rest of the young Hollywood social set. What they eat and where they eat it, who they are dating, the terms of their parole, etc. Why do I care?

Then one day, during one of those moments at the traffic light, it hit me: they’ve beaten the system. They have it all, (or at least it looks like they do) and they have it all at one time.

Think about this: how hard and for how long do most people have to work to be able to have the kind of financial freedom to jet off to Capri on a whim or collect cars as a hobby?  For most people I hang around with, there are two distinct ends of the spectrum: young, vivacious, carefree and broke, and mature, secure, settled and boring.

Paris and her ilk, on the other hand, have managed to skip the whole self-conscious, struggling, broke stage and proceeded directly to success without ever having to lift a finger or work an hour of overtime. They have all the perks of being young and fabulous without any of the battle scars or therapy bills.

While I can’t speak for most people, I can say what I suspect is my own fate, based on the fact that you rarely read about jet-setting community newspaper editors dripping in diamonds and swilling champagne: by the time I can afford to throw caution to the wind and dance the night away on some tycoon’s yacht, I will be of an age where that sort of thing is somewhat inappropriate.

Come to think of it, the fact that I am fast approaching the middle of the spectrum is perhaps the reason for the Paris-inspired reflection.

I suppose, of course, that there are certain pleasures to be taken in just being a regular old working stiff. It is nice to feel as though you’ve earned what you have, and seeing your hard work pay off. And while there are certainly no guarantees about hard work equaling success, there is a certain peace that comes with putting everything you have into something. Even if you don’t make your first million by 30, it’s certainly nice to be able to attribute your progress in life to more than just your lucky stars or your last name.

Maybe celebrities and socialites don’t exactly have it all. And I suppose you can’t put a price on ­­­­­­­a sense of accomplishment, or the feeling that you deserve what you have.

If you could though, I’d be happy to sell it to Paris. I certainly wouldn’t gouge her, but I’d like to at least recoup what I’ve spent on those crummy magazines.