A Loro Piana sweater.
Wearing a Loro Piana sweater on a yacht.
Wearing a Loro Piana sweater on a yacht that’s strategically anchored in international waters so as to avoid any criminal financial culpability.
Organic blueberries.
Buying organic blueberries from a weekday farmers’ market.
Buying organic blueberries from a weekday farmers’ market after laying off half your staff via e-mail (“Sent from my iPhone”).
A bottle of Aesop hand wash in your bathroom.
A bottle of Aesop hand wash in your guest bathroom.
A bottle of Aesop hand wash in each and every one of your twelve guest bathrooms, plus a bottle of Dom Pérignon in each and every one of your five double-wide fridges, and a bottle of lorazepam for anyone who asks.
A Herman Miller Eames lounge chair.
Lounging in a mint-condition, fifties-era Herman Miller Eames chair inherited from a grand-uncle with a dubious past in the oil industry.
Lounging in a mint-condition, fifties-era Herman Miller Eames chair inherited from a Vanderbilt-adjacent relation, while reading The Economist, noshing on organic blueberries, and sighing to yourself, “Welfare is ruining this country.”
A Russian wolfhound.
Rearing a Russian wolfhound and carrying around its birth certificate with its official American Kennel Club name, as well as the names of its dam and sire, to prove that it’s a purebred to anyone who asks (or doesn’t).
Rearing a purebred Russian wolfhound and posing with it for a commissioned oil painting that you will “forget” to list as an asset during your next financial audit. In the painting, you and Cornelius are wearing matching Loro Piana sweaters. You will store the portrait on your yacht, coördinates undisclosed, until the I.R.S. is dismantled once and for all.
A finely tailored trenchcoat.
Traipsing about in a finely tailored trenchcoat at the weekday farmers’ market, then conspicuously rolling up your sleeves to reveal the signature Burberry plaid lining as you aggressively jockey for the best-looking carton of blueberries.
All of the above, but you’ve also brought your purebred Russian wolfhound to the market, and he does not play well with other dogs or small children or tall men or anyone wearing Old Navy, and you threaten to sue a struggling single mother for letting her toddler get too close to your easily triggered, untrained dog.
Using “summering” as a verb.
Using “summering” as a last-ditch effort to save your struggling marriage of convenience.
Using “summering” as an alibi.
Spotting the Olsen twins in West Hollywood.
Spotting the Olsen twins in West Hollywood where they’re sporting The Row flip-flops and smoking imported cigarettes.
Spotting the Olsen twins in West Hollywood where they’re sporting The Row flip-flops and smoking imported cigarettes, and walking up to them to say, “Cute dog!” only for them to respond, “Thanks, it’s a Russian wolfhound. Would you like to see the papers to prove it? Don’t come too close—he nips fingers that haven’t been cleansed with Aesop hand wash. Also, sorry, but we need to run. You can’t see under our Burberry trenches, but we stained our Loro Piana sweaters with organic blueberries this morning, and we need to get them dry-cleaned before we head off to summer on our yacht. O.K., gotta go. Though, gosh, we’re so tired we could just faint onto our Herman Miller Eames lounge chairs.”
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