At times you hit up the snack bar at the Weeburn Beach Club, took the neighbors’ kids to the Wilton Riding Club, or sometimes simply lounged by the pool ordering black and white milkshakes off your parents’ tab at the Lake Club. You developed a crush on the lifeguard from the next town over and thought it was a very racy “wrong side of the tracks” attraction. Nothing ever transpired.
Instead, you spent spring break wearing khakis and working at Hay Day where you rang up overpriced organic groceries for Gene Wilder and Tom Cruise on the same day. You were appalled by your first paycheck and vowed to never work another job that required you to wear a name tag while actually serving others.
Here, you were forced to swim in the frigid lake and sing songs about how much you loved Camp Sloane. When algae and weeds tickled your feet you were convinced it was Jason Voorhees. It was at camp that you developed your excellent archer’s grip and fencing riposte (because of course the Native Americans fence?). And that cool basket you wove? It found its way into the trash the second you left for college and your parents redecorated the entire house so they could sell it and move to the estate down south.
After all, not everyone can pull of a chambray button down with madras J Crew shorts. Some of us needed a bit more tailoring. And where else could we find satisfactory plaid shirts to wrap around our waists but in NYC? But let’s get something straight — for anything other than shopping and the occasional jaunt to the ballet at Lincoln Center, Manhattan was a dirty, no-go zone. There were homeless people there!
“Connecticut” is a Native American word meaning something like “place of the long river.” Lacrosse also has its origins in Native American tribal games. Why Thursten and Whitney Lilywhite were playing this sport is puzzling, nevertheless you had a strong association with the sport in high school. Your world crumbled ever so slightly when you met someone in college who didn’t know what it was.
Classic Mustangs, Jeep Wranglers, VW Cabriolets, and BMW 3 series were definitely in vogue. At least a few kids got hand-me-down Saabs and there was always a Porsche 944 or two in your high school student parking lot.
You also paid three times the regular price, but that didn’t matter. You and the rest of the braided belt brigade were drinking Bush Light out of cans. Zima made an appearance, but was summarily dismissed as “lame.” You wondered when your parents will notice their Finlandia vodka has been slowly siphoned off and dreadfully diluted with water.
Who bought these kegs and why they were always full of Icehouse beer will remain a mystery. Though some of you had car phones, they were for emergencies only. You relied upon a series of known points that you would drive to in order to gather information on whose parents were away skiing in Colorado or shopping in London. Large, centrally located parking lots were good for this. You then formed a “party train” with the one person who knew the address of the house leading the way. Everyone would drink and drive.
UConn?! No thanks. You and most of your friends attended private schools, preferably in the New England area. Pennsylvania was acceptable provided it was either Bucknell, Lehigh, Lafayette, or the University of Pennsylvania. A large portion of your class attended Boston College. An even larger portion of your class developed alcohol and substance abuse problems, but never really got in trouble for it. Such is the life of privilege. 