Boo͞′zhē

From the French, Bourgeoisie. A member of the materialistic middle class.

Or, an intrusive medical instrument favored by urologists.

We’re talking about the first citation, articulated by a neighbor after throwing down 3 Manhattans; ironically, a hoity-toity cocktail preference for a man who dares call me rich.

Back in the 1960s, my dad informed me that a millionaire was not a wealthy person. I was shocked to hear it — but Dad was a wise man and now, given perspective and adjusting for inflation, I can say with certainty the wife and I are not rich.

That said, I can see where it’s coming from. I married a terrific gal and hung onto her for 50 years. Other men are intuitively jealous. How did I do it, they wonder, and naturally assume I was prosperous.

Which brings me to the story of a cash register clerk who commented on my appearance in the checkout lane, attired in motorcycle racing leathers.

She said, “You look hot.”

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, I am.”

That was a long time ago. These days, I look bougie.