Today we cracked the spine of a Martha Stewart tell-all book, leaving many of you pondering the nature of this WASPiest of WASPs. One commenter waxed poetic about Martha's driving and what it says of her place in society.
I'm not surprised about the driving. There is a subculture of entitled, wealthy, (mostly) white women who terrorize upper-middle class suburbia in their SUVs. (My bitchy sister is one of them.)
They get in cars they can't properly handle at normal speeds (Lexus LX 10s, Lincoln Navigators, and for the nouveaux, Hummers) and drive them at 80 mph down the narrow, winding roads of Lattingtown, Cold Spring and Greenwich with no regard for limits, lanes, signals, stop signs or cops.
Who knows what ennui they are fleeing from or to as they rocket along and bags from Tahari and Armani slide off the seats into a miasma of crushed Cheerios and Irish Setter sheddings?
What motivates them to narrow their recently done eyes behind their enormous sunglasses and jam their alligator ballet flats down on the accelerator when they see a bunny in the road?
Do their dry, disappointed hearts pick up a frisson of youthful verve that was once, long ago, triggered by picking up a Caran D'ache pen and drawing their names in a heart along with the initials of Thayer Billabong Hollister, the star of the lacrosse team at Friends Academy?
One may only guess. And jump out of the way.