Inbox Stylist: Your Vice Is Showing
You can tell a lot about a girl by her poison of choice.
This issue of The Love List is in partnership with our friends at Net-a-Porter. Happy 25th anniversary, NAP.
Summer is an indulgent time: longer days, later nights, and the sweaty stem of a spritz. I feel like I properly kicked it off with a stay at The Mayflower Inn last weekend: a long spa day, a dip in the pool, and a cozy meander through the tents at Fenimore Lane and downtown New Preston.
There, I found a beautiful Gustavian bench reupholstered in fresh Fortuny fabric and tiny peacock-colored wine glasses from Curio Shop. My fiancé, a history nerd and fluent in French, geeked out over an 18th-century Parisian tobacco jar that came home with us as well. I also found the coolest little cordless lamp. We brought our dogs and they zipped through the grass in the mornings and flopped on the hotel bed in the afternoon. They didn’t make any purchases or visit the spa, but were happy with the trip nonetheless.
I wasn’t feeling like a big joiner; we got in late and missed the Fenimore Lane dinner (thanks for that, sofa delivery from hell), so I sat back, took a bird’s eye view of the whole thing, and let myself be still. Is people-watching a vice? On Sunday, I was sitting by the huge windows in the spa and saw no less than six girls walk by in some version of the same prairie dress and this basket.
Now I have a little downtime in the city before heading out to the beach, but I can already feel things slowing down: New York is emptying, and I can breathe a little better. I’m already mentally packing: new Laoli necklace, check. WNU seersucker set, check. SLB, check.
This rest and reset will benefit my system as the heathen behavior returns in July, along with all of summer’s vices. There’s just something about a silly late night with girlfriends or a cold drink under a shady umbrella, you know? It’s good for the soul.
What’s your poison?
The Soft Power Escape Artist: The most well-adjusted dissociator you know. Lives in cloudlike ribbed dresses, leather sandals that suggest she’s never rushed, and a shapeless sunhat she calls “sensory armor.” Believes strongly that summer is for “Do Not Disturb”.
Vice of choice: CANN Lemon Lavender with ice, a book she’ll never finish, and total energetic withdrawal.
The Dry-Season Siren: Intentional, not intense. She’s not drinking, but she’s not missing a single plot point, either. Huge SPF gal. Creates playlists for people she loves, following her strict instructions never to shuffle.
Vice of choice: Ghia Spritz and the quiet superiority of going home early with clear skin.
The Farm Stand Archivist: Spotted sitting under an al fresco umbrella she didn’t unfold herself, eyes hidden behind tortoiseshells, debating whether she’ll even mention her August plans. She knows what day the figs are ripe… and which restaurant will serve them first.
Vice of choice: Cold Puligny-Montrachet poured at the perfect temp, linen napkins at lunch, and never raising her voice.
The Sandalwood Oracle: Earthy, enigmatic, ritualistic. She’s the barefoot intellectual at the beach bonfire. Rents an Amagansett farmhouse with Japanese knives and no TV every August. Her favorite chair is outdoors.
Vice of choice: Small-batch tequila over ice and lovers who live far away.
The Dust-Covered Nepo: Sun-worn and story-filled, she’s grace with grit. Bra? Not a fan, clogs the lymph. Unreadable in a way you can’t fake. Her stillness is a kind of threat. Lives in boots that have seen something and earrings with weight and history. Always smells like heaven and knows at least six ways to tie a silk scarf.
Vice of choice: craft reposado sipped in solitude, old gold, and things passed down with conditions.
The Beach Club Preservationist: Knows exactly where to sit for shade and attention. Will take a photo of the table but never post it. Always shows the right amount of cheek.
Vice of choice: Whisper-level gossip at Le Club 55 and at least two glasses of rosé by 2 pm.
The Southern Comfort Syndicate: She’s on her third summer posting “out of office” from the same front porch. Always tan, always booked, always brunching. Find her on a Charleston side street posing in front of pastel shutters. Always has an iced face towel in the Yeti in her trunk. Group chat girlie. Loves a voice note. Always signing off with a champagne emoji. “Wait, should we open another bottle?”
Vice of choice: Chandon spritzes at her friend’s pool, justifying purchases by saying, “It goes with everything.”
The Primary Resident: Unshakable, well-moisturized, and vaguely annoyed that you asked what she does for work. Find her at the Sagaponack General Store, buying cherry tomatoes as if she were selecting sapphires. May or may not wave hello. Says she loves her husband, but her true love is zoning laws. “Oh, we’ve had the house forever.”
Vice of choice: $38 grilled chicken salads, one glass of wine that turns into four, and quietly gatekeeping her colorist.
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