'Tis the season for taxes and money is on everyone's mind. It's a time when we tally what we've made and wonder what others take home. But when it comes to money, it's not something we discuss with friends. We talk about our sex lives and dysfunctional families, but money is still a taboo. So we continue to wonder about our neighbors and friends. Shira Boss is the author of, “Green With Envy: Why Keeping Up With the Joneses is Keeping Us In Debt,” and she was invited to discuss these issues on TODAY. Here’s an excerpt from her book:

It started even before the couple next door moved in. The comparison. The envy.

My husband and I live in a relatively small apartment building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where the gossip — the news, as it were — traffics in our cramped elevator or basement laundry room. Behind its thirty doors, our building houses a flutist, a filmmaker, lawyers (both corporate and public sector), interior designers, a nurse, an accountant, a grad student, an expatriate retiree who feeds the birds in Central Park, and the usual coterie of mystery inhabitants: They’re around, even during the weekdays, they own cars (unusual in this area, where parking spaces start at $400 per month), they seem to be supporting themselves comfortably, but we’re not sure how. The building has units from rectangular studios to penthouse two-bedrooms. Perhaps what sets the residents apart the most is how long each has lived here. Considering how real estate values have tumbled upward in recent years, the newcomers are consistently quite a bit better off than those of us already here. Five years after moving in, for example, our mortgage — the one we stretched our debt-to-income ratio to the absolute outside limit to get — is about equal to what the down payment would be now.

In this environment, the most prized fruit of the grapevine is which apartment is being sold, and for how much. So when our neighbors right next door to us put their place on the market, you can be sure we were interested in who was moving in, and at what price.

And then we heard. In the elevator. The seller told me that a young couple our age was buying it — for over the asking price — and that they were paying cash.

Cash?

Somebody’s daddy has some money! our neighbor guessed.

Yeah, I guess so. We couldn’t imagine living mortgage-free at our age in Manhattan. And most of our friends couldn’t imagine owning any property here at all. We had been the envy of our friends for having scraped together a down payment and bargaining our way into a mortgage. But hearing about our new neighbors, who would have no mortgage at all, we were the ones who felt kind of behind. And certainly mystified. We couldn’t help but wonder where that kind of money was coming from.

There were two possibilities as to how the buyers accomplished this very large cash purchase, and my husband and I speculated about them at length. Either, as the seller thought, Mommy and Daddy helped them out by writing an enormous check (and that’s how we referred to them, “Mommy and Daddy,” as opposed to when our parents helped us out, in which case they were referred to simply as “our parents”); or they belonged to that dreaded class of twentysomething dot-com millionaires. We weren’t sure which was preferable. Both seemed frustratingly undeserved.

We met. We had been ready to be annoyed by them, for them to be privileged, East Egg people, or intolerable hipsters, but actually John and Tina were very nice, apparently normal people. They seemed like a quirkily mismatched couple: Tina, a petite, brunette Italian, had a stylish haircut and wore chic clothes surely from a downtown boutique. John, a taller, blond, we-soon-learned Upper West Side Jewish native, seemed more like a kindred spirit to me. He had just gotten out of a PhD program for geography (we got that bit of info from looking them up on Google) and dressed simply in jeans and flannel shirts. They seemed to go to work in the morning like everyone else. I had visions of becoming good friends and living like the two couples on the 1950s sitcom The Honeymooners, always dropping in on each other. We put their finances out of our minds. None of our business, we told ourselves.

Then on a Friday afternoon I ran into Tina waiting in the lobby of our building with a small (new, chic) suitcase.

Going away for the weekend? I asked.

Yeah, I’m just waiting for John to bring the car around. We need so many things for the apartment—we’re going antiquing Upstate.

Antiquing? Who uses antique as a verb? I wondered. Does it mean the same thing as hitting flea markets for neat old stuff? Because I would have been fine with hearing that, but the idea of our young neighbors going on an antiquing spree—when, years after moving in, we were still waiting to buy something to cover our windows—reminded me instantly of their wealth, and that they could afford to do things differently.

After making smalltalk about antiquing, I turned to the elevator and pushed the call button, but I was interrupted by a question:

Can you recommend a good cleaning lady?

I froze. We all have different definitions of financial success, and mine is being able to afford a cleaning lady. I had a boyfriend once who lived in his parents’ six-bedroom place off Park Avenue, with a live-in cook and a cleaning lady who spent every other day scouring the apartment. It was like living in a 5-star hotel, or what I imagined that would be like. Thick white towels were always folded and fresh. When you threw anything into any wastebasket, it blinked back at you from the bottom. Clutter never had a chance. Nor dust, nor dirty dishes. The best part was that my boyfriend never had to give any of these chores a thought. To my mind he dwelled in housekeeping nirvana: total comfort, zero effort.

My husband and I have had the usual “discussions” about keeping our home clean, and not even clean clean, but just keeping it from sliding into squalor. We’ve often ended up with the solution that if we paid somebody else to do the dirty work even now and then, we wouldn’t have this tension. I’ve heard that solution from married people and read it in women’s magazines: “Hire a cleaner. It’ll save you hundreds in therapy bills!” But it has always felt financially impossible. Money that would go to a cleaner could be put toward a dozen more important things. Necessary things. Later, we end up saying, when we have enough money.

But our new neighbors, they evidently already had enough money, and they could afford a cleaning lady.

Rather than play along, I decided to confront the envy by just being frank.

No, I told her. Actually, it’s my dream to have a cleaning lady, though.

Tina, being a nice person, tried to make me feel better by saying, Yeah, it’s been so long since we’ve had one.

So what’s changed recently? I wanted to know. Whence these cleaning lady funds?

I’m not proud to recount my conversation later with my husband. Antiquing? I mocked. And who keeps a car in the city, anyway? That’s ridiculous. It’s cheaper to rent one whenever you need it. Insurance, parking, not to mention the cost of the car itself — what’s the point of paying for all of that when you can hardly ever use a car here anyway?

My husband’s response was even more delicious. Well, we know how they can afford it, he said smugly. Without a mortgage, we could afford a lot of extra things too.

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