Beast Hampton meet the camel toe

Toe Factor: 10

This picture goes right to the heart of the changing of the guard in the Hamptons. The WASPy woman on the left is appropriately frumpy and ageless in the sense that you don’t know if she’s 28 or 44. She looks equally comfortable taking care of her horse or helping her oldest son fill out his Hotchkiss application.

She lives in a house that her grandfather (the last risk-taker in the family) bought and in which she spent her childhood summers. She married a guy she met at summer camp in 1979 after they reconnected as Summer Interns at a whiteshoe law firm. His first name is most commonly a last name and he is silently furious at the amount of money his unrefined clients are making while he’s doing due diligence by the hour; he doesn’t realize their balls and hunger mean more than his pedigree. These two are dinosaurs.

The woman on the right and her unpictured spouse are their replacements. Forget the love handles, Lilly Pulitizer dresses, and comfortable old Volvo station wagon (with 15 years of beach passes on the bumper). She and her hair-gelled superman fly in by helicopter and run errands in a Maserati. They are conspicuous and unrepentant consumers. They water the lawn with Moet and have kids who are comfortable swearing in front of adults. When she goes out, she makes sure that her pants are sprayed on and accentuate both her abdominal liposuction and the collagen she just had injected into her labia.

Rather than going for the understated look, she views her Camel Toe as an accoutrement… a card to be played in the poker game of life. Her Toe and the brazenness with which she displays it represent her conquest of the Eastern tip of Long Island… she’s a modern-day conquistador. So who cares if she’s screwing her trainer?

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