What You Can Buy With A Million Dollars

My buddy Kevin once saved up a million dollars. Not from some tech IPO or inheritance, but by driving the same beige Corolla for eighteen years and eating lentils every Tuesday. He finally spent it on a used yacht he named “The Tuesday.” It sank in the marina three weeks later. That’s the thing about a million bucks—it sounds like a life-changer, but it’s actually a very specific amount of weird power.

You can buy a house, obviously. But not the one in your dreams unless your dream house is a cozy two-bedroom in San Francisco or a shed next to a landfill in Malibu. A million dollars buys you a perfectly fine starter home in the suburbs with exactly three closet rods. Three rods, Carol. That’s your whole million. You’ll spend weekends caulking the tub.

Or you could buy a fleet of sensible cars. I’m talking twenty Toyota Corollas, lined up like a rental lot for people who hate excitement. Alternatively, you could go for one mildly fancy sports car—a used Porsche 911 that will need a new transmission in two years. Either way, you’re getting four wheels and a deep sense of “why did I do this?”

The Big Choices

Let’s talk food. With a million dollars, you can eat at the world’s most expensive restaurant every night for about a month. After that, you’re broke, bloated, and deeply annoyed that the gold leaf on your steak tasted like nothing. Or you could buy 100,000 Chipotle burritos. That’s a burrito every day for 273 years. Your descendants will inherit a sour cream addiction.

Consider experiences. A million bucks buys you a 30-day private jet trip around the world, staying in five-star hotels. You’ll see fourteen countries, lose your luggage twice, and realize you still have the same inner problems—just at 40,000 feet. My uncle did this. He came back and bought a hammock. “The hammock was better,” he said.

Boring but Brilliant Bets

Here’s the twist: a million dollars in a dull index fund, earning 7% a year, gives you $70,000 annually. That’s a solid middle-class salary for doing nothing. You could sit on a porch in Nebraska, drinking iced tea, and never work again. It’s not glamorous, but it’s quiet freedom. No yacht, no burrito empire—just a porch and a library card.

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But hey, you could also buy a small island. Not a nice one—think a rock with a single palm tree in some questionable Pacific nation. You’d be king of a patch of dirt that floods during high tide. Still, you can tell people you own an island. They won’t ask about the tide.

Or a degree from an Ivy League school. Yes, a million is roughly the cost of four years at Harvard, including ramen and therapy. You’ll graduate with the same knowledge as someone who paid $50,000, but with a premium story about your student loan. Or you could skip college and just buy the books for $2,000. The million buys you the prestige, not the education.

The Absurd Options

You could buy a slightly used nuclear submarine on eBay. I’m not kidding—there’s one listed for $900,000. But then you’d have to figure out parking, maintenance, and explaining to your HOA why there’s a periscope in the driveway. The fun comes with hidden costs.

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You could also buy a million rubber ducks. Imagine that delivery truck. Your neighbors would think you’ve lost it. Then you could release them in a river and create a local legend. “Remember the Great Duck Run of ’24?” Worth every penny of your life savings.

But the most honest answer? A million dollars buys you time. It buys you a year off work to figure out what you actually want. It buys you a safety net so you can tell your boss you’re quitting to bake sourdough. And let’s be real—most of us would blow half of it on nonsense within six months. That’s human nature. I’d probably buy a bouncy castle for my cat.

So what should you actually buy? A mix: a modest house, a good index fund, and one ridiculous thing that makes you smile. For Kevin, it was the yacht. It sank. But for three weeks, he was the king of the marina, and that’s worth something. Just maybe avoid the beige Corolla for eighteen years. Life’s too short for lentils every Tuesday.