The revolutionary costume for today

I really want one of these:

I had one the summer I was twelve, and I remember liking how it looked against my tan wrist. (I will admit, I’ve always been vain about my wrists.)

That summer was the apex of my preppy phase. Being a prep was the only way I could manage to freak my parents out. They expected to me to wear, like, flowers in my hair, and instead I asked for penny loafers. Ha!

But that whole period was mostly painful and unfortunate, because I felt–and worse, looked–like I was wearing a costume. But there does exist one transcendent photograph. In it, I stand in front of a weathered saltbox wearing a navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up, cuffed white shorts, the aforementioned loafers–pennies a-glint!–and white anklets. The sun hits my nose fetchingly, and I have shiny hair and a mysterious little smile on my face. Around my wrist, the sailor bracelet. I look–in that moment only and never since–a bit like the young Sylvia Plath, patron saint of grandiose phonies.

I renounced prepdom in eight grade. Or, more accurately, the preps renounced me. It turned out to be a huge relief. I could be the ex-prep who smoked pot. Like, bad! To everyone except my parents. Sigh.

See, I’m still conflicted about all of this!

Which brings me to the related subject of WASPs. One peculiar thing about me is that I am fascinated by WASPs. I was telling Left Hook about A Privileged Life,

the coffee table book about WASPs which came out recently and which I own, and she was like, “Wait. You bought that?”

I did.

What can I say? It’s love/hate. WASPs are bland and rigid and rules-obsessed, all qualities I find objectionable. But there’s something amazing about the way that, at the same time, they don’t give a fuck.

Furthermore, your girl Pistol is the culmination of eons of peasantry. It is apparent in my very flesh: this body was made for work. And I hate work. Seriously: ask me to carry something and I will hate you for the rest of the day. I can’t help but be a little dazzled by blue blood.

The WASP book is worth a gander. Avoid the copy; it’s awful. But in the pictures you will find everything that is glorious and everything that is repugnant about WASPs, not to mention many sparkling green lawns.

Take this 1986 photo of the Lacoste family:

The mother, Catherine–yes, that is a woman–has that depressingly scrubbed and sexless lady-WASP look, but I kind of want to be her oldest daughter. How gorgeous is she?! She’s preppy at its best: sort of like how an English garden is a combination of staid geometry and wild, messy, irrepressible life.

Maybe this is a reaction to being desperately sick of this trashy 8o’s revival bullshit that has lasted, by my watch, at least four years, but I find myself oaking all kinds of preppy gear this summer. Like my seersucker wedges, and a vintage bag I got on eBay–woven leather and rope, with sort of a Boca-in-the-70’s feel. It’s ridiculous, and yet it goes with everything I want to wear.

Next weekend I’m going back to the old homeplace–ancestral seat of WASPdom, literally–and I’m getting me one of those bracelets. And who knows, maybe a whale belt too. Fuck it!

by Pistol Whip | 16 July 2007 | stuff | Comments