Logically, we have to look first at what it felt like to grow up with family fortune, and then at the feelings about fading. As with many historical phenomena, we shall rely on the construct of eras.

Era the First. Or, Money’s Magical Abundance.

In many ways, as I have said, mine felt like any other childhood. At least in the moment. Here’s the effect of growing up rich, as best I can synthesize. (Note that High WASPs are a particular kind of rich; there are others.)

• A fine-tuned eye for the, well, fine. An unerring attraction to the rare, the beautiful, and the precious.
• A concurrent heightened opinion about what is or is not good taste.
• An understanding that one ought to rise above the material, despite its charms. Said understanding is fostered by a very good education and lots of travel.
• Almost unlimited privacy, nutrition, and time to explore. Imagination is the true luxury of childhood.

And possibly, (as this is an emotional undercurrent my culture will not allow me to know for sure), the connecting of luxury to love.

• Silky edges on knit blankets.
• The weight of brass buttons.
• Smells of Diorissimo and Christian Dior lotions applied in front of a very large mirror. A padded seat in front of said mirror.
• The wood-turned leg of a Danish midcentury sofa.
• Hall mirrors.
• Silver, in various guises.
• Linen sheets you rip, at 13, having thrust your feet into bed with erratic pre-pubescent energy.

Era the Second. Or, Money Says Its Name.

Then come the teen years, and college. In California of the early 70s, no teen worth their salt owned more than two pairs of pants and shirts. Riches be damned, thus largely unfelt. At Princeton, in the late 70s, I lived more like a Californian far from home than a person of privilege. I struggled with Shetland sweaters and bright pastels.

At 21 I came into my inheritance; 9 months later I graduated from Princeton and began looking for work. In this phase, one makes one’s way in the world and, absent financial pressures, wanders into a career. Concurrently, one figures out that one had Money growing up, that one still has money, small M. Then, sadly, one realizes that there is not Enough.

Obviously, remembering this time requires distancing pronouns. By One, I mean Me.

And by Enough, I mean enough that you can make most decisions without regard to finances. In my youth, I behaved as though that were the case. By midlife, two children into the game, I figured out it wasn’t true. Which brought about,

Era the Third. Sumo Wrestling With Money-san.

Unfortunately, I figured out that I did not have Enough in the middle of a marriage. Any further details would divulge information that isn’t mine alone. Let me say that while nobody did anything very wrong with my inheritance, it turned out that my ex-husband and I held different opinions about just what it should mean and how it should be used.

I also figured all this out while living in Silicon Valley, the land of I Woke Up With 5 Billion Dollars This Morning, Gee I’ll Buy A Land Cruiser And A Mansion Right Now. Oh how I felt each fortune made, each new millionaire. Most likely my sense of deprivation was part and parcel of the emotional undercurrent that I’m not supposed to mention. I will never know whether a different region would have changed my attitude toward money, and so my life.

We might profitably wonder, is it all about the concept of Enough and Abundance? Those are emotional states, as much as material. I imagine that any 100 people with the same net worth hold at least 68 different emotional realities about their position. Research indicates that once a certain level of material security has been met, all else is psychology, attitude, and intent. I believe it.

So here I am, at 56. Now how does it feel? How do I feel?

Era the Fourth. Sitting Down Next To Money With A Glass Of White Wine.

Things have changed. I’d like to say I’ve reached Enlightenment and become the Buddha. Such is not the case. I have, however, found happiness, due in part to the equanimity of middle age.

Yet more credit goes to Significant Other. He is wonderful in many ways, not the least that he makes my well-being one of his top priorities. However, he has resources. Tricky, right? Makes me sound like a gold-digger, right? I of all people know that even when you love for free, money costs.

Mr. Significant and I don’t swan about in Mercedes and designer duds. (Well, OK, a designer dud on my part, here and there.) I still live in my little ranch house, and drive a 6-year old fully paid off Toyota Rav4.  But I can splurge if I want to, and no one will frown, cast aspersions on my morals, or call me wasteful. They might even feel happy in the gift. This feels like unconditional love, which I believe is what we all seek.

I give him presents too.

I will never know if without money I would be so close to my family, feel as glad to be alive, and love as I do. But it’s a specious question. We are who we are and we do as we can and will. We are not Penelope, and can’t unpick our stories past the fringes to the weft.

The Promised Attempt At Summation

I believe the best parts of a family fortune are

• surprise
• abundance
• beauty.

That’s what to focus on, in the fading. Had I known earlier what was coming, I would either have engineered my life for material abundance, or structured my expectations around the abundance available for free. Oceans, redtail hawks in the sky, toddlers talking.

In the end, our fading family fortune mostly leaves me mad that I didn’t understand my situation earlier. I might not have acted differently. But as a thoughtful person, I would like to have had the choice.

I have been fortunate, and I use the word advisedly, to have happiness find me even so.

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I inherited my first slice of our fading family fortunes at 21. I remember sitting with my father in the sunroom. The rattan furniture was covered in a burnt orange, batik-ish fabric. I was reading a book, he his mail. Then he said something like, “Aha.” Or, “Well.” One of those exclamations that indicate a shift.

He explained that one of his mother’s sisters had died, without heirs. Of the four girls, only two had children. One of them, my father’s mother, had only him. As a result, he would inherit some of his aunt’s estate. But, rather than take possession of the assets, he was going to pass them down to us children, right away.

Generation-skipping, I think it’s called. Favorable tax implications, I think. Generous in any case. So there, unexpectedly, at 21, I had more money in the bank than I could have earned in several years at any job I was likely to find.

The full story of my inheritance, as I have said, is long and full of socioeconomic and gendered landmines. I understand that it’s fairly unique, and do not want to natter on about such a specialized experience.

But there is something more useful than my personal history to be derived. A reader asked me what I thought about kids, and trust funds, and financial resources in their early years out of college. A question to be asked both by those who have always had money, and those who by dint of great talent, or luck, or both, are newly well-to-do. Maybe by everyone with children.

Here’s what my experience tells me, at the highest level.

Finances At The Family Dinner Table

• For all families, discussing money clearly, and revealing the realities in a timely manner, is probably the single most helpful thing a parent can do. More valuable than money itself.
• In trying to get children to understand the value of money we might consider denying kids access to resources all around them in the family. This tends to feels like lack of love and is not recommended.
• The best way to learn about money is to get a job and experience money in and money out. However, forcing kids to work just to “show them what it’s like,” often joins a long list of “dumb things my parents say,” removing all chances of lesson-learning.
• Modeling financial behavior + child’s temperament + all the rest of simply being alive = end result. Money is very intertwined with our emotional foundations of need and response. It’s difficult to teach financial responsibility in a completely dispassionate way.
• As a result, money discussions become all the more important in families with resources. Yes, it is embarrassing to talk about money when you have it, and kids don’t have the context to understand what the numbers really mean. But shame in this context is not useful. A demystified process of financial education should be well underway well before anyone turns 21, or graduates from college.
• These discussions are complex, requiring a sensitivity to what kids are ready for, and when. I imagine this is true for all kinds of families, but would not want to speak, in ignorance, for anyone else.

To Trust Fund Or Not To Trust Fund

• So if you have financial resources, when do you make them available independently to your children? Let us deconstruct.
• Families in a position to set up trust funds will almost certainly have afforded their children a debt-free college education. This is enormously fortunate in and of itself.
• At the end of said education, kids will either have a vision of what they want to do or not. A trust fund will not be useful to someone in the latter situation. In a few cases, those who do know what they want to do could make good use of an infusion of capital, but having to request or qualify for that capital provides a better learning experience than having it in hand.
• A period of survived life uncertainty can be useful, in 2011
• We, in America, are experiencing an inexorable lengthening of youth, as our life expectancies extend. The period of experimentation is longer than it was a few decades ago.
• Even those who take on fully-fledged, traditional adult jobs, may find themselves shifting careers over time. Again, survived uncertainty grounds one.
• Life comes as phases. 21-25 is often quite different than 25-30, and certainly different than 30-35 – if only because women will often want to have children before they reach 35-40
• The vast majority of young people, in the demographic with which I am familiar, will spend the years 21-25 bouncing about
• Those who do not will be gainfully employed, possessed of health insurance, and often saving for a goal. They are apt to calculate future inheritances in, quite rationally, to their plans.
• If you are going to bounce about, you might as well do it broke as rich.
• Turns out that not HAVING to do anything doesn’t solve the problem of what you WANT to do. Or SHOULD do. The greatest cure for anxiety and uncertainty is often a job, a task into which to throw oneself.

At the end of the day, in our early 20′s we all ought to learn what we are capable of, if we don’t know already. Test ourselves. Understand the value of money, not in some moral sense, but transactionally. Understand our own functional worth in the world. Trust funds, excuse the word play, can in fact get in the way of understanding and therefor trusting oneself.

Instead of funding the 21-year old’s portfolio, let that money accumulate until he or she is 25, or even 30. The capital-intensive part of life begins later these days. While it would be disingenuous to say that a chunk of money that allows you to buy a house is a bad thing, the work of one’s early 20′s is perhaps best done on a limited budget.

My professors always brought up the sonnet form when explicating the value of constraints in art. The same applies to life. All of this is as true as I can make it.

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Today is April 16th. Many people filed their income taxes yesterday. Some people know that this year the official date has been extended to the 18th, so they are waiting until Monday. And others, I do not know how many, will file for their own extensions, and complete the process in August, or even October.

2011 is the first time my taxes have been finished promptly, in, well, ages. I said this to my accountant when I signed the e-filing release on Thursday. “Oh no,” she replied, “We did it one other time in the last 15 years.” It feels like forever.

In a parallel process, I have finally sorted through all my  financial records, put them into boxes, and stored them in the garage. The 1980s and 90s got a box each. The 2000s required two. These papers have not seen order in their lifetime. I put those boxes in the garage and I looked at them.

To some people, 30 years of financial records might seem like clutter. Not here. Those boxes look to me like flags pinned on a battle map, representing territories under control. Bah to all of you, portfolio statements, checking registers, tax files. Surrender your place in the back of my thoughts, reminding me always of ways in which I failed to take charge. Now I win.

I came into my inheritance when I was 21. It wasn’t huge, by any means, but made me even so into a woman of some substance. Substance I didn’t understand. When a locus of power that you do not understand enters your life, you’re thrown to its wolves. One way or another.

I used to try to balance my checking account, and fail. When I ran out of money, I’d just overdraw my account. Someone at the bank in New York would call me.

“We will need to cover your check. We plan to sell X or Y or Z.” They’d request my approval.
“OK,” I’d say.

Eventually they stopped asking and just sent letters telling me what they’d done. Sounds great, doesn’t it? I have to say again, the lack of comprehension created an underlying anxiety that undermined a good deal of what could have been fun, a source of charitable giving, or a foundation for my own creative enterprise.

I lived next to my inheritance as though it was a friendly dragon I did not own, providing reliable heat, but never allowing a ride on its back.

All things considered, I was pretty responsible. I didn’t fritter it away on drugs, debauchery, or even clothing. The inheritance has trailed me all this time, and remains, failing but good-natured, to help me in this time of enforced retirement. Some day, when I am brave, when nothing matters enough to fear, which is how I envision old age, I might write a true history. Get a forensic accountant to trace the path of what came in and what went out.

But for now, I’m just going to pass by those boxes and breathe in the smell of cardboard.

I am, as I’ve said before, no minimalist. In my closet hang denim work overalls I wore in the early 70s, when we all thought the Revolution was nigh. I store boxes upon boxes of photos documenting my children’s bathtime. They took a lot of baths. It was something to do in those evenings.

Clutter to me is that stuff that bites you and bothers you and gets in the way. Those things I allow to keep me company are not clutter.  Not the books under my coffee table, nor Asian betelnut holders on sideboards, nor silver cigarette boxes here and there.

I filed my taxes. I boxed up my records. I am waiting now to see what fills that previously troubled space.

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I imagine a style blogger attending an industry conference feels a little bit like an astronaut, called upon to demonstrate zero-gravity in a Walmart parking lot. In other words, she hopes all the equipment arrives intact, but assumes that should anything go missing, she can probably run next door and get a replacement. I packed for Lavish! in good spirits.

The first day of the conference, Friday, December 9, I wore this blue Naracamicie shirt, along with 7 for All Mankind ‘Ginger’ jeans, and quilted black Manolo flats. I felt quite at home in Room and Board, dressed fancy-suburban, watching stylists work.

That night at the opening reception I wore this little black dress by Narciso Rodriguez, black Simple 70 Louboutins and some jewelry.

The earrings were on loan from Beladora. Yes those are diamonds. Yes I felt like a movie star. And, oh, by the way, the hanging parts tremble. No kidding. I thought myself Tinkerbelle, perhaps a cocktail version of her flickering light. I was very sad to send them back. That bracelet is my own, the requisite piece of High WASP family jewelry and was made by fusing my grandmother’s brooch to a gold cuff.

To date, the adult life I’ve led involved full-time work, followed by caring for small children, followed by full-time work again. I threw dinner parties in my little house. Lavish! satisfied my secret wish to dress larger than that life. I could discover, dressed in finery, what if my family fortune had not faded? Now I know. Somehow a little hole is filled. Turns out it was the not knowing that caused distress, more than any aching lack. One problem with privilege is that your psychology gets tied up with luxury, in childhood. This can take decades to untangle.

The next day, Saturday, December 11th, with the conference in full force, I wore my Prada dress, Surprise! You might wonder, as did I, was the dress too fancy for day? No, not covered by a cardigan and dressed down with black tights, and black Ferragamo Varinas. Not when paired, for the win, with this mid-century bracelet. Certainly not given the conference was called, after all, Lavish! And if my outfit, let’s say, just a teeny tiny bit over the top? Nobody minded.

I am getting a lot of mileage out of that dress, you know. Every single time I have put it on I feel as though I’m reaching all the High WASP archetypes; Sturdy in fit, Artsy in print, and Grande in lace trim and fabric. All was well, sartorially, except my feet hurt when I had to stand through a very crowded session.  I tweeted as much. Sturdy Gals don’t like painful feet, as we know. You can dress us up but feet are non-negotiable.

That night, to a party given by Rue Magazine and HGTV, I wore what you see at the top of the page. In other words, these pearls and diamonds, also from Beladora.

and a $138 dress from Zappos, by Jessica Simpson. Yes. That Jessica Simpson.

I bought the dress a few days before the conference, determined to prove that one could dress High WASP glamorous, (sort of an oxymoron, but I digress) on a budget. The copper-colored sequins, shape/fit, along with frayed black edges at sleeves and neckline, moved the simple shift into a better place. I wore it with black tights, (why everyone is wearing black tights I don’t know, but I can go along), and the same black Louboutins. The earrings provided more flash than I’m used to. High WASPs are scared of heart-shaped jewelry, except for pavé diamond pendants. But with the short copper dress and black tights? Right balance.

Guess which outfit, of those hitherto described, garnered the most compliments? Jessica? Call me.

And finally, for the parting ceremonies, on Sunday, December 12th, I brought out some cat of prey. We’re going to call it the “Snow Leopard” print. Embrace a trend now and then. Even if only as a collar peeking out from under a black cashmere v-neck. The latest black cashmere sweater in a history of many such.

Vintage mabe pearls from my sister, 20 years ago. Recent 8mm pearl strand,  mine. Snow leopard printed satin shirt, from a hotel store somewhere in Southern California.  Store-label black cashmere v-neck. Wide-legged grey Banana Republic pants. Wide crocodile-embossed belt from Wilkes Bashford. Vintage DKNY ankle boots. Vintage as in I bought them 20 years ago.

The wide belt and leopard made me feel quite Versace. Louche, almost. Sturdy Gals dream of feeling louche. To us it is the most possible wickedness, and we tell Angelina Jolie, “Watch out. I’m coming for you. After I put my Aerosoles back on.” Because we dislike foot pain almost as much as we like Tinkerbelle diamonds. Almost.

Again, thank you Shameeka Ayres. Lavish! reverberates in unforeseen ways for many of us, I imagine.

Note: If your monitor doesn’t show the links highlighted, every time I refer to a piece of clothing I’ve talked about before, I link to the post where you can see the item. And, if you could let me know that you can’t see the links, I will work on darkening or otherwise increasing their visibility. Thank you.

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***

Nous sommes ravies, absolument ravies, de prendre un verre avec vous, très chère Lisa, en ce merveilleux moment de Noël. Jeanne-Aelia et moi are delighted you invited us along with our BCBG friends, comme d’habitude c’est exceedingly gracious on your part.

Charles-Henri, le grandpère

I believe you have introduced everyone properly, ma chère, after all they are part of your extended family so to speak: Charles-Henri, Marie-Hélène, Arnaud, Anne-Charlotte, Sigismond (aka as Siquet, pronounced “C.K.”) and la petite Clementine.

Marie-Hélène, la grandmère

Being a member of the BCBG tribe, or bon chic, bon genre, is of course the French equivalent of a Preppy or an English Sloane, or more aptly a high WASP if such a creature existed in France (one cannot after all be Anglo-Saxon and French, although one could be Protestant and many are Catholic of course). Nevertheless, you are most certainly in your element.

As in all things French, defining bon chic, bon genre beyond the façade and a few key indicators, is complicated. Or, ce n’est pas a piece of cake if you will.

For the sake of expediency, I shall give you the abridged version herewith and perhaps on another occasion — if you would be so kind as to indulge us — we could delve deeper.

Arnaud, le père

Let me translate. One might think simply understanding the words, “bon chic, bon genre,” would be sufficient. It most certainly is not. BCBG is defined as those who: have a classic and elegant style, with an excellent éducation (that means impeccable manners in French), emanating from a long, long line – the longer, the better – of aristocratic or haute bourgeoisie ancestors.

Anne-Charlotte, la mère

As one might expect, there are pretenders to the title, but the true blues recognize them by a misused word; an untoward gesture; the slightest allusion to money; or, worst of all, referring to their country house as “nôtre château.” Such ostentation screams, nouveau riche (!) which of course is très amusant, but really means, not one of “us”. (Being a High WASP, Lisa, you know what I’m talking about.)

It’s true they have their uniforms, which allow them to recognize others of their kind (genre), but clothes alone do not make the man (or woman or child for that matter). Children’s names, clubs, Parisian arrondissements (the Seventh, 16th or 17th traditionally), schools, locations of country homes, vacation destinations, and more, define a BCBG.

Siquet, le fils

For example, Anne-Charlotte and Arnaud, parents of Clementine and Sigismond, have plans to add to their family. BCBGs often reproduce at hallucinating rates thus causing havoc among siblings when divvying up the Louis XV furniture, St. Louis crystal, Louis XVI silver, and let’s not even talk about the jewelry. . . at the inevitable moment of inheritance. (No one speaks about money, but one observes a pronounced affinity for “things” of value – sentimental and otherwise.)

Clementine, la petite fille

As I was saying, children’s names, these would be a few examples of some that would be considered for the future progenitors: Albane, Aude, Bérangère, Capucine, Hortense, Mathilde, or Delphine for the girls and perhaps Alexandre, Augustin, Baudouin, Edouard, Gonzague, Guillaume, Wenceslas or Xavier for the boys.

However, we are here to have a pre-Noël celebration with you. As you can see, we’ve been shopping – wearing, as always, some of our favorite vestments.

(One cannot accurately say “fashion” or “mode” when describing a BCBG wardrobe, since the terms are irrelevant. A BCBG is rarely, if ever, a fashion victim though happily on occasion a family can produce an eccentric.)

Do let me briefly describe some of the de rigueur BCBG dressing details Jeanne-Aelia has so perfectly captured in her drawings:

Charles-Henri is wearing his – what else? — Loden coat, which he has been donning in various sizes since he could walk, and his snappy Celine Robert chapeau.

Marie-Hélène is comfortably correct in her classic – which, as she would say, j’adore, — tweedy suit from Old England, her enormous Hermès cashmere shawl (a gift from Charles-Henri) and her Roger Viviers from the 60s.

(BCBGs respect their clothes and take very good care of them, and, since they stay at more or less the same weight throughout their lives they give new meaning to the concept, “investment dressing.”)

• Arnaud is unspeakably BCBG with his Charvet shirt and pochette, slouchy tweed jacket from Cordings in Piccadilly, London, plaid cashmere scarf from Brummel, sweater from Berteil, Ray-Bans, and moccasins from J.M. Weston suede brogues.
• Anne-Charlotte is demonstrating that soupçon of whimsy so prevalent – and appreciated — in the younger generation and has turned one of her Hermès scarves into a saucy bandana. Naturally, she absolutely lives in her Burberry and Repetto ballerinas. Her charm bracelet, started by her parents when she was 18 and added to every year by Arnaud to mark either the birth of a child, or another major event, dangles precious medallions from Arthus-Bertrand.
• Sigismond, despite the responsibilities that weigh heavily on his young shoulders as the first-born son, is experiencing a moment of mild rebellion, but is nonetheless wearing a cashmere cap and scarf from Bompard and Geox boots. A certain degree of revolt is acceptable and considered healthy, assuming at no time and at no age does one forget his (or her) manners. Exquisite etiquette is non-negotiable.
• Clementine is all dressed up in a sweetly smocked dress from Bonpoint and a coat from Cyrillus. (She will break out of this mold in the next couple of years, but for the moment she accepts what her mother has chosen for her, as have her friends. Rebellion has not yet occurred to her.)

You are no doubt wondering just what would they give one another for Noel. Surely you are, n’est-ce pas?

What is so comforting in the world of BCBG gift giving is the fact that, with rare exceptions, more of the same is more than appreciated.

Frankly, can anyone have too many Hermès scarves, Charvet cufflinks, Chaumet bijoux, Arthus-Bertrand charms, Chanel accessories, obscure objets for one’s collection of precious whatevers? Obviously not.

Sigismond may or may not receive the latest iPhone he covets. It will no doubt depend upon whether he was accepted into the exclusive, private (is that redundant?) Ecole des Roches prep school next fall.

But, we are citing frivolous details, the accumulation of material objects of no importance. What is true, meaningful and eternal is the family, the continuation of one’s beliefs, standards and traditions.

In that esprit then, we wish you and all those you hold near and chers, a très Joyeux Noël.

***

Again, I thank you Tish, both for this post and for the continued pleasure of A Femme d’Un Certain Age.

Bio for Jeanne-Aelia Desparmet-Hart, of Through the French Eye of Design
The United States have been my country of adoption for the last 24 years. I left Paris and a career in fashion and found a brand new professional life in the world of interior design. I “earned” the right to attend Le Studio Bercot, a Paris fashion design school, by surviving 4 years of interpreter school. I have also had the privilege to live the life of a nomad. It was a very comfortable nomadic life, certainly, but a life with a lot of moving away from “there” to discover a new “here”. I encountered new cultures, new colors, new life styles, even new “weathers”. I have loved it all and I am convinced this travel rich life has very much determined the choices I make today. But certainly, being French is a big component as well.

Pour Monsieur
1. Cashmere turtleneck
2. Cufflinks
3. Lab puppy — if one is lucky, the SPCA. (Any reputable breeder. I cannot
find my original source.)
4. Pour Monsieur de Chanel
5. Chapeau
6. Wax sealing stamp

Pour Madame:
1. Scarf
2. Shalimar
3. Medallion
4. Evening minaudière
5. Rings
6. Gloves
7. Headband

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I spent some part of my life trying NOT to dress preppy. Didn’t want the label. I would refuse to try things on, “No, that will make me look too preppy.” When you are blonde, mid-height, mid-weight, and your nose is longish and uppish, preppy comes with the visual territory.

As I aged, and my confidence inexplicably increased, things changed. (Before I proceed let me say that this may apply only to me. I don’t pretend to speak with the voice of authority. Only the voice of hours of anxiety and analysis. Occasional rapture.) In my 50′s I chose to expand the concept of preppy to include me as I am. Executive fiat. High WASPs can be preppy, if they like. Preppies can be High WASPs, if they choose. No requirements. I like classic clothing, I like simple clothing, I like clothes with a design sensibility that sounds a little “Ding!”. Sometimes preppy. A little bit elegant. I don’t like frumpy clothing, I don’t like obviously outdated clothing, I can’t even do overly girly, but I don’t want to venture into butch. Somewhere in that Venn diagram is the High WASP x Northern California style that I was both born into and chose.

However, perfect things to wear did not at the point of realization start to fall out of the sky onto my head. I had to find a place, or places, to buy them. When I was working, I had this figured out. Now in uncharted territory, I ask myself this question.

There used to be High WASP retailers. Do they still exist?

I thought about the retailers vying for my dollar. My, “I can dress you head to toe!” dollar. My, “I know who you are, I know what you want, come here my dear, and let me Cinderella you.” dollar. Those siren calls, oh pink, oh shine, oh brocade, oh serge. The mainstream US suspects. Anthropologie, GAP, Ann Taylor, Talbots, Lilly Pulitzer, J. Crew. I decided to do some on the ground research. Yesterday I went to J. Crew. Research purposes only, you understand.

Boy do they do retail right or what? At least in the High WASP good taste diary.

I walked into the store. Stopped. Looked around. Before me was a torso mannequin, wearing a skirt, ruffled blouse, mohair cardigan, and multiple strands of large crystal necklaces. I could feel tingling in my fingertips and electricity in my mouth. The desire to become. The feeling, “Oh yes! I DO want to put myself in your hands. Make me like you. Find me colors that are a flag of beautiful and let me wave as I set sail.”

I don’t even like ruffles. Then there were these:

I walked slowly around the store, inner voices chanting in growing volume, “Yes….” A bag on display. The same bag. Over and over again. Looked uncannily like a certain Louis Vuitton sparkly metallic eggplant tote. I mean Amarante.

They had pumps. Lots of pumps. With 2.5 inch heels. But not a speck of dowdy, what with the toes peeping and the pearliness shimmering and all.

They had these.

Finally, they had these.

Which would clearly have to be worn in some combination of multiples.

Let me explain right off the bat that High WASPs don’t really buy accessories. Well, sure, shoes and bags, but since servants became prohibitively expensive nobody is carrying me or my belongings around. I am obliged to do it for myself and therefore need shoes and bags. We don’t buy fashion jewelry. We have the stuff mom and dad gave us, the gold Georg Jensen bracelet our dotty grandmother gave us the same year she gave the boy cousins shampoo and notepads shaped like pianos. We buy ourselves new diamond earrings sometimes. Sometimes our sisters and brothers give us Me and Ro for our 50th birthday.

We just don’t do what our mothers called “costume jewelry.” It makes us feel like we are trying, which, no matter how shimmery or adorable the effect, causes far too much emotional overhead.

We will, however, fall prey to the same lure as others. When we see that sparkly stuff all perfectly layered in its multi-color glory around the mannequin’s neck we get excited. We want to buy something. Something else, maybe, but something. The remainder of the family fortune calls to us, “You can afford it.” The “it” isn’t even specified.

J. Crew got me. No, no, I didn’t buy anything, I was too busy thinking. I can’t buy and think at the same time. But here’s what they did so well. So evilly well:

• Showed me a way I might like to think I looked, all the details included. Didn’t require too much of a leap of faith. Didn’t have to step away from the High WASP comfort zone. After all, how always useful is a buttoned shirt and a pencil skirt?
• Convinced me, and this is key, that I couldn’t do it myself. The color. Perfect and out of reach.

I couldn’t possibly be sure enough to wear an apricot shirt with a purple-pink skirt and brick pearl pumps. I know what shoes to wear with navy blue. I know that by heart, in my blood, in my sleep. For apricot, I need J. Crew’s help. For purple I need a whole army of reassurance. I need the salesperson to rave over how cute it all is. I want the salesperson to rave over how cute it is.

See what I mean? You can tell. These are the feverish rantings of a woman infected by retail. Damned by her heritage and doomed by her desires. Let us hope it is not terminal. If I bought anything, it would be for research purposes only. You believe me. I know you do. High WASPs don’t tell fibs. Well. Mostly. I might never be able to do apricot and would have to go for light blue instead. But I would blame it on the apricot.

All images J. Crew

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Was I High WASP with my children about money? In how much I had? In my attitude towards it? In what I tried to teach them? My first reaction is to say no, simply because I haven’t had the quantities that I grew up with. But I think that’s wrong. I had money. Enough money to buy a house in the San Francisco Bay Area on low salaries and no savings. Enough money to stay home with my children until my little guy was 18 months, and even then only work part-time until he turned 7. Enough money to send two children to private schools on still lowish salaries and no savings. Enough money to take my family to Sweden and stay on a private island in the Swedish Archipelago where one night we took a motorboat to another island and ate grilled fish sitting at wooden benches while a string trio played a mix of Norwegian folk songs and the soundtrack from The Godfather. (Of course my Swedish stepfather and my mother’s perspicacity in marrying him helped with that moment…) Most of all enough money to give my kids glimpses of privilege without having parents doing the type of work that would have afforded that privilege. Even though I don’t have a private art collection that has been gifted to a museum after my death. (Another true fact).

My own attitude towards money has been absolutely classic. High WASPs really really really didn’t use to talk about money. It was worse than pornography, though carrying the same illicit frisson. To this day I remember a conversation with my father, so much unsaid, where he was trying to give me some kind of financial overview before I went off to college. We were living in the house with 35 rooms at the time, where the attic alone was the size of a barn. My parents had for some reason decided to have an award-winning architect build them a garden shed in the yard. Yes, I said garden shed. Dad and I were walking by the shed. It was the special kind of shed that has two stories. And windows. I found myself blurting out, “Dad, so are we millionaires?” He just looked at the ground and made a noise, some kind of noise of affirmation. I was 17 years old and I hadn’t known.

My inheritance, once it arrived, went to live in lalaland. The land where money you don’t make lives. The land governed by your cousins, and banks with strange names that merge with other banks with strange names, and account statements that follow you all your life. That land sends you a checkbook. When you need money you write a check. At some point, actually frequently, you will write checks that would bounce if you were normal. But since you have money in lalaland, someone calls you and says, “How about if we sell XYZ?” Since you didn’t earn that money, and in fact know nothing about investments or banking or stock markets or bonds, you always say “OK.” Eventually they stop asking you, and lalaland becomes lala and fala and falalalala.

Did I impart this attitude to my children? I do not know. I don’t think so. It is true that in many ways, I have replicated how I was brought up. I didn’t make my kids take jobs in high school. Or work at home to earn their allowances. Because my High WASP family values education above all, to my way of thinking their jobs were to do well in school. I indulged them repeatedly. We stayed at fancy hotels when I took them on college tours. Can you say the Peninsula Hotel in Chicago? OMG. Just LOVE LOVE LOVE the panel by the bed to adjust the room controls, and all that honey-colored silk, and the little dressing room outside the bathroom…. But I digress. Bad High WASP. We are being serious here and not hanging our tongues out about the props of money. I bought my daughter a cashmere coat at Bergdorf’s when she started Princeton. Which in fairly short order was stolen from an eating club. After having had beer poured all over it the year before. I sent my son to Australia for a month with his best friend for his high school graduation.

But. In more ways I took a different approach. Most glaringly, my house does not have 35 rooms. We’re pushing it to say 3 bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, kitchen+living room, den. Oh yeah, and a hallway. And I have always told my kids they would have to work. I started saying to them early, when we were out to dinner and enjoying a restaurant with candles and tablecloths and large ravioli, “Now aren’t you glad Mom has a job?” I have made very clear to them that they can go to college unencumbered only because their grandfather in his infinite wisdom funded trust accounts to pay for it. And when they entered college, I began the process of talking to them about how they would support themselves upon graduation. Certainly no inheritance showed up in my daughter’s bank account last fall.

I have tried to teach them how to find a financial path they want to take. Not that I know from direct experience. No one ever talked to me about a career. As in, I don’t think the word was ever said. Not once. I want my children to understand in a way I never did the importance of choosing a way of earning money that you can live with. Whether that means doing what you most love and letting the money come if it will, or whether it means building a lucrative career and doing what you love as a hobby, no matter. But some degree of thought has to be put into the question. Because careers grab you by the scruff of your neck and shake you until you are dead and you might as well die for something you love and/or believe in.

There are values, which may be related to money, which I have hoped to pass on. Excellence and a degree of honor. Excellence, a degree of honor, and some avoidance of ostentation unless we are only with ourselves and no one will be offended. Or we are inviting people in and sharing. How well we realize those values, who knows? We are all humans and humans are subject to a multitude of flaws. But my mother and my father both believed in integrity, doing the best job you can, and good manners. At least they said they did. And so do I. At least I say I do. But values are a question for another day.

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