A Lazy Day in The Hamptons

Three weeks ago, I thought a day when not much happened was the stuff of dreams.  Well, the sun's shining, I'm wide awake, and I'm not dreaming.  I really did pinch back petunias in the garden this morning, get through that ad hoc pile of papers on my desk, and settle back for a slow turn of the page with this month's issue of "Architectural Digest."  But, hmm, there's the possibility of a decision.  Do I really want to renew the mag's subscription?  How many articles about re-decorated houses in The Hamptons do I want to read?  But, no, I can't give up AD and lose those fabulous articles about homes with a certain character that comes with time.  Summer will pass.  The Hamptons will fade.

The Hamptons are a seaside resort at the end of Long Island, New York.  Although I've been to New York City numerous times, there's never been a reason to visit The Hamptons.  Hub loves the beach but prefers warmer southern waters.  I'm not a beach person and am the one next to hub beneath a mountain of towels under the umbrella (with a peep hole for my book).  Yep, I've got on #50 sunscreen, a hat, too.  The sun and I flat don't get along.

 I doubt that those who frequent The Hamptons realize I've never been or that hub went a couple of times years ago on day trips.  (He's from New Hampshire.)  The uber rich, those with oodles of money, frequent The Hamptons.  Er, that's not us.

"Architectural Digest" showcases truly lovely homes in the Hamptons. These homes sit on some of the most expensive property in the United States.  Owners seem to spare no expense displaying what the most talented architects imagine belong in a seaside environment.  Actually, I get the impression there's an unspoken contest in The Hamptons to see who can spend the most and still give the impression somebody really does flip a burger on a grill somewhere.  (Maybe near the infinity pool? the guest cottage?)  Somehow, I don't think anyone cooks in the kitchen, unless, maybe a chef flies in from New York City and knows how to present food just so, like in an exquisite painting where children play in ruffled dresses and short pants without a hint of perspiration on the brow.

Now, I don't harbor a burn about the rich spending $150,000.00 for a Birkin bag, a Hermes specialty.  I mean, I pass time waiting in the dentist's office, like most everyone else, thumbing through old gossip mags and raise an eyebrow at the excess of it all, then turn the page.  And these are the 'merely rich' in the gossip mags, those who need the publicity Hermes provides, the ones who earn a few million dollars a year, not the $242 million a year, the 'mega rich' rake in.  The 'mega rich' avoid Kardashian-like publicity as if the printed word spread the plague.

So, I plop the mag down when the receptionist calls my name and get on with it.  Little by little, the to-do list shrinks, and days like today are special beyond words, magical days where I'm flopped on the sofa, a soft breeze flutters, and a magazine stirs the imagination. Being rich is relative.