When I was 10, my father took me by the shoulder and said, “Son, we need to talk.” To this day, whenever someone (particularly my boss), tells me that we need to talk, it sends shivers down my spine.
My mother was away doing whatever mothers do on a Saturday afternoon, so he knew he held me captive for at least an hour. He led me into the garage and told me to slide across the front seat of his car. Sitting in the front seat of my father’s Oldsmobile had become our own little cone of silence, whenever he had something important to teach me.
“Son, we need to talk about something before you get too much older.”
“Is this going to be about the birds and the bees?” I asked. “Because if it is, my teacher already explained hide the hotdog – how boys slide their wienies into a girl’s bun and how important it is to be careful with your mustard.”
“No son, this isn’t about the birds and the bees. It’s about something much more serious. I want to talk to you about money.” I looked at him with a blank stare. I knew nothing about money. I still don’t.