I grew up in a world of mildly rich people with dippy problems.
These problems often concern serious trifles gone awry. A majority of them deal with the three final rungs on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs: Belonging, Self-Esteem, and Self-Actualization. As for the people, we’re not The Rich Kids of Instagram. We don’t have inheritances or titles. But many of us are moderately wealthy tykes of the Lexus-driving variety and we all just graduated from the Academy, which comes with its own presumptions. We’re (more or less) well-educated and well-off, and we advocate for little brown children in South America via Valencia-tinged Instagram feeds. We’re also fiercely suburban, albeit in denial of the fact. As it seems, life is an absolute idyll for us, as absolute an idyll as the 1950s American Dream in 2014 can be.
But alas, when one door closes another one opens, beckoning us forward to a world of wonder. Wonder about vulnerability, acceptance, morality, ambitions, happiness, relationships, confidence, etc. etc. Which really translates into wonder about 10 minute youtube ab workouts, 650-word personal statements, the price of fake ids, transportation logistics to concert venues, the capacities of 3-inch AP biology binders, the calories in vodka and
Chipotle bowls, the availability of shows on Netflix, the validity of love and sex column advice, and whether or not to geotag Mykonos Greece or opa ! opa ! opa ! And so begins the onslaught of their truly momentous flummeries.
Everyone has people problems of their own, but now seems like an appropriate time to quote a slightly altercated line of M. Gustave H from The Grand Budapest Hotel when describing some, if not all, of my clientele:
[upper-middleclass], [young], insecure, vain, superficial, blond, needy
We’re ridiculous sometimes, shamelessly and unwittingly narcissistic most of the time, and helplessly naive all of the time. So much so, that our easily impressionable lives and times deserve documentation. And that is the premise of a good part of the writings in this blog.
Consider it your one and only source into the scandalous lives of suburbia’s supreme. Even if you’ve had your fill of Jeep Wranglers, pong-littered basements, and Lily Pulitzer – honey, you can’t leave town.
photos via tumblr