Confessions of a Park Avenue Peacock: How Does it Feel to Be an NYC Elitist? (Spoiler Alert: It's Exhausting)
Let's get one thing straight: being an elitist New Yorker isn't all cashmere turtlenecks and brunches overlooking Central Park (though those are definite perks). It's a complex tapestry woven with equal parts privilege, existential dread, and a constant internal monologue judging everyone's brunch choices. Think "Gossip Girl" on acid, with a side of artisanal kale chips and $20 lattes.
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| How Does It Feel To Be An Elitist New York |
Morning, Darling:
My day starts with a sunrise yoga session in my 5th-floor walk-up studio (that I inherited, don't judge). I downward-dog my way towards enlightenment, trying to ignore the sirens and the pigeon poop on the fire escape. Once my chakras are aligned, it's a quick swipe-through SoulCycle waitlists and brunch reservations before hitting the streets.
Tip: Don’t skim — absorb.
Coffee Connoisseur (or, How to Avoid Eye Contact):
Finding the perfect flat white is an Olympic sport. It's not just about caffeine, it's about an intricate ballet of micro-aggressions. Do I scoff at the tourists asking for extra syrups? Do I subtly adjust my Chanel sunglasses when the guy in yoga pants orders a Frappuccino? These are the decisions that keep us up at night, darling.
Walk This Way (Without Sweating, Obviously):
QuickTip: Pause when something clicks.
Strolling down Park Avenue is like strutting down a peacock runway. But with a million eyes scrutinizing my vintage Dior scarf and the perfectly distressed hem of my jeans. Is my dog's leash Herm�s enough? Does my Birkin scream "Park Avenue" or "uptown tourist"? These are the anxieties that fuel our therapy sessions.
The Art of "Not Seeing" the Plebes:
QuickTip: Read again with fresh eyes.
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It's a skill honed over years: the ability to navigate through hordes of tourists like a phantom. We glide through Times Square, our noses tilted heavenward, pretending not to hear the street performers or smell the hot dog stench. We are masters of the invisible eye roll, the subtle shoulder brush that says, "Darling, you do not belong here."
High-Society Soirees (or, Drinking Champagne and Judging Everyone's Hamptons Plans):
The nights are a blur of velvet sofas, designer canap�s, and conversations fueled by Dom P�rignon and thinly veiled disdain. We discuss art openings we haven't been to, charity galas we'll skip, and our meticulously curated summer itineraries in the Hamptons (Montauk? Please. Nantucket is where it's at, duh). It's like a Gossip Girl reboot, but with more Botox and less teenage angst.
Tip: Context builds as you keep reading.
The Existential Void Underneath the Louboutins:
Despite the outward facade of glitz and glamour, there's a nagging emptiness that haunts every elitist New Yorker. We chase trends, accumulate possessions, and climb social ladders, all while wondering if it's all even worth it. Is there more to life than judging brunch plates and attending charity balls? The answer, my friend, is buried somewhere between a $1,000 facial and a silent auction for a trip to Fiji.
So, there you have it. The glamorous (and slightly tragic) life of an NYC elitist. It's a wild ride, darling, but trust me, the constant existential angst is a killer on your blowout. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a SoulCycle class to attend and a chihuahua to accessorize.
P.S. Please don't tell my therapist I told you all this.
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