There is a special kind of disappointment that grips a woman who has married up and realized, sadly, that there is always a higher up. Is he worth a hundred million? She reads several stories every year about yet another twenty-something, often in her very own neighborhood, who has already outdone her thirty- or forty-year old mate, and in a seemingly shorter period of time. Did she imagine that her husband would start one blockbuster after another, that he was a Jim Clark or a Steve Jobs? When he presses, coming home later and later to try and repeat his earlier feats, stressed and tired and blaming his co-founders and realizing that he will soon be the high school quarterback who tells war stories from behind the counter at 7-11, she looks at him and realizes that her initial impressions of his godlike omnipotence were just a projection--and that regardless of their bank wealth, they will not be joining the Buffetts and the Gates at their next bridge game, will not be giggling with Bill and Melinda at a junket in Africa, will not be leading the morning panels at Davos and skiing in the crisp afternoons.
And that is when the penniless entrepreneur strikes.