And I say fuck that.
If we're doing glamour, we need to be able to smash down that door until the sheer force of our presence, our charm, our beauty overtakes the gatekeepers and we are in the center of the universe (which is always seated between our hearts and tummies, some days it's easier to find than others).
It started as it usually does. A heist, led by my blond Midwestern Protestant sandbox love. She saw the means and gave me the opportunity to sweet talk the cabana boy into letting me steal The Key. I held it for a couple of years, we were never there when the actual cabana club would be open. Wood decks, bronzed nymphs and athletes, cerulean blue pools that were warmer than bathwater. Cocktails made with fresh herbs and St. Germain served by shirtless boys and bikinied girls. A little cove that gave a sprinkle of water as if you were caught in a sudden April shower. A jungle of greenery to keep the prying eyes away.
I kept it in my pool bag, a talisman.
Last weekend, it was perfectly sunny and I was down the shore with Jow. My sweet husband who hated mischief and dealing with gatekeepers. He frowned upon the holy trinity of Vogue, Carrie and Barney's, only slightly swayed if I could give a convincing argument about craftsmanship.