Life in the slow lane
I’m not very good at tennis, but I am hooked —line and sinker — on the sport. I spend 16 hours worrying about everything of the navel-gazing assortment. Name it and I’ll worry about it. It encompasses psychic predictions, vague SMS messages from frenemies, proper engagement presents (everyone in my age group is getting married and I have this need to give gifts, a carryover of growing up with politicians; I did give a very helpful sex book to a very vigorous couple) and lately colors for my bedroom (those Jonathan Adler sheets from four years ago are beyond vintage and I have outgrown my quirky eccentric phase). So while I obsess over monochromatic rooms like those in Plaza Athenee in Paris or the old Christian Liagre-designed Morgans Hotel, it also gives me a headache. I’m intense like that. I’m useless like that.
So it’s a pleasure for me to spend a full hour just fixated on those neon green Slazenger balls. Pak, pak, pak: the pleasurable sound of a perfectly hit ball is athletica aria. There are no thoughts of my Plaza Athenee bedroom, no worrying about what the psychic said about my doomed love life or wondering whether I effed up the dates on my upcoming photo shoot for YStyle (sometimes I’ll have the model, makeup artist and dress with no photographer… Serenity now!). No thoughts on how my downward spiral actually feels so damn good. A lot of people have asked me why can’t I write about more substantial things in my column. Aside from the masturbatory indulgence that comes from self-promoting oneself doing fake charity and pretending to be green while buying croc Birkins. I like to keep my good deeds private; some things are still sacred, you know. Also I simply cannot tamper with the vapid nature of this decade-old babble fest of a column. If it’s broke, it’s broke. So why fix it? It’s pure blasphemy for the church of stupid.
The boyfriend always teases me that I’m a lady of leisure. So not true. While I may not be pulling off an IPO soon, I do have my contributions to society. A book on its way, a movie that I’m producing with some friends from the UK and, of course, YStyle. My training at the newspaper has made me a very fast worker. So with this I have the gift and curse of free time. In the past I was a 20-something supernova, burning both ends of the candle way too fast. Being a fashion tart could be tiring! Photo shoot, writing and closing for YStyle, media lunches, photo shoot with some magazine about my shoes, more launches of lip glosses and perfumes, fittings with designers (sometimes I had three in one day), and let’s not forget the parties. The latter being the ultimate killer. That’s why I kept my hair short for all those years: I had no time for it, ironically. Shallow women run deep, indeed!
Three years later I have long hair and what my friend Wendy calls my “country club in Connecticut” phase. My outfits are usually prim little dresses that hint a little bit of sociopath paired with Chanel ballerina slippers. While I’m no longer sipping Mint Juleps, I am gripped by artesian and deep-sea water like that Sesame Street character that moans “Agua, Agua.”
I’m not into the trendy bling or Calvin Klein-designed Voss water. I mean, who knew that there were four kinds of water — Classic, Light, Bold and Effervescent? I like Classic or a good Effervescent because it goes well with food. The richer ones are fabulous alone, no lemon wedges, please!
My everyday drink is either Acqua Panna (sort of like the Moet of water by Perrier) or Santa Vittoria (an Italian brand that has a more epicurean nature to it) served at room temperature. Ice is the enemy of fine water! Our very own Hidden Spring is a very close runner-up. When I chance upon it I enjoy the delicate salty goodness of the deep-sea Mahala water from Japan, the classic mineral taste of Hildon, the clean Cisowianka Perlage from Poland and the refreshingly crisp and totally green Icelandic Glacial water from Hildarendi at the edge of the Olfus spring. Then, on really special days, I may chance on a sparkly glass Chateldon, paired with a Robuchon meal. It’s dubbed as the Champagne of water. Even retired party people still want glamour, after all!
What does this say? Aside from validating my obsessive nature in all things pleasurable, I have also become one of those hideous “I don’t go out anymore” kind of people. Aside from my WASP (wishing Anglo Saxon Pinoy) outfits, I’m more or less in my Adidas active wear, favoring towards the Stella variety. Actually, I got into tennis because of the short little dresses.
I have started reading Martha Stewart. I find I have an affinity with her beyond-country-club lifestyle. I think prison made her crazier with her obsession with place cards. And no matter what, I am so not subscribing to GOOP, Gwyneth Paltrow’s vibrator of a blog. I just like to know that when company comes I will not be serving them chips and beer. For our regular book meetings, I like introducing them to a new kind of tea bought in China or France with some homemade cookies or gourmet popcorn. Yes, popcorn and tea go together. I know: I have a long way to go. I also fill my time now having weekly sessions with a dog therapist for my two dogs Caligula and Milo. Yes, I need perfect dogs to go with my perfect water.
Being a House WASP is starting to grow on me. I like indulging my stressed-out boyfriend with a new pastille I found online (Lavender is my favorite flavor while he likes the more pedestrian Cinnamon), a new brand of butter for his country bread, enthuse about my new satin sheets (for my monochrome bedroom), a malty variety of honey I found in some airport or a rare piece of chocolate (we both favor milk 33 percent, so we’re very hoi poloi in that department since all the precious ones are dark) when he comes home half dead from work. He is so polite as he listens to my “discovery” of the day. As he runs numbers in his head, I’ll confuse him by throwing out thread counts.
Am I going insane? Maybe. But I don’t miss cigarette smoke on my Rodarte and neither do I miss destroying satin Chanel heels in an exuberant club or ruining everything while drinking cheap vodka. When my friend David, who is a new dada and a former creature of the night, told me that staying in is the fashionable thing now, I took this as a sign of comfort and to reassure ourselves that we’re in Has-Been Land and it’s not so bad. There is a premium in living well especially in the small things. What good is it to have a Birkin when you’re drinking distilled water? Honey, it’s just a step away from the tap.
