Primates of Park Avenue: A Memoir

by Wednesday Martin

  Looking perpetually photo ready cost them significant time and not a little bit of anxiety—this I knew from getting myself together most mornings, having realized early on that I was the only person showing up for drop-off with a scrunchie in my hair and lines from the sheets still pressed into my face. I started to get a weekly blowout, upped my sunblock to tinted moisturizer, and added pinkish lip balm to the mix. Even jogging clothes should look nice and flattering and yes, fashion forward, it seemed. On days I couldn’t jump into my running togs because of a meeting after drop-off, I found myself mulling over the right look, snapping at my husband that I didn’t have time to get our son ready for school—I had to get myself ready. I knew how absurd this was as the words came out of my mouth, yet I was swept along by the cultural tide of high expectations, the hot and cold running Prada, the flawless faces, and the dazzling daily displays all around me. All before 9:00 a.m.

  That these women basically had several “uniforms” made the daily task of getting dressed a little easier. Other than lululemon for drop-off and playgroup, the Upper East Side clothing lexicon was remarkably consistent, with minimal and very subtle variation, if any. For starters, there was the bag. Favorite brands and styles were Céline (Luggage Bag, Nano Luggage Bag, or Trapeze Bag); Chanel (large Boy Bag); and Hermès (Evelyn, small Jypsière, or Kelly worn cross body; Garden Party Tote in spring and early fall; holy-grail Birkin 30- or 35-cm in black, Blue Jean, or gold). The Valentino rockstud bag is beautiful and fashion forward, but no one in the tribe I studied and hung out with had one. It was not comme il faut; it was not done.

  Ballet flats were popular in months of little or no precipitation—Lanvin and Chanel and Chloé were favored, especially by tall women. Lanvin wedges and Isabel Marant wedge sneakers were popular choices for “low-key” drop-off days, when moms didn’t have something to rush off to immediately, because these women were always, as far as I could tell, looking for a height advantage, a literal leg up on everyone else. Sky-high platforms and stilettos with bright-red lacquered soles said, “I’m going somewhere—and I’m not taking the subway.” There were boots in fall and winter and into spring, of course—high, teetering black boots of softest leather and suede by Manolo Blahnik and Christian Louboutin and Jimmy Choo, some of them open-toed, and fur-lined biker boots by Brunello Cucinelli. Skinny jeans and leather leggings were popular on casual days. On rainy days these were topped with classic trench coats (always with some update that kept one perpetually shopping, such as leather arms or a laser-cut lace hem), and accessorized with wildly colorful Pucci rain boots and whimsical Chanel ones with signature camellia flowers affixed. In winter, the mommies donned licorice-black, shiny Moncler down puffers. Fur vests were so popular with haute moms that a friend jokingly suggested there should be a photo essay about them in all Upper East Side school newsletters. And on the coldest days, there were more furs—sumptuous beaver and glossy black sable and indescribably soft (I knew from brushing against it with my ungloved hand in the jammed elevator) chinchilla coats. Lustrous and astonishing to behold, they cost more than my first book advance, I was sure, but were worn with the kind of casual aplomb usually associated with a jean jacket.

  And on days when there was a charity or cause breakfast of some type after drop-off or Mommy & Me, it was all-out, full-throttle, dressed-up mayhem. There were simple but stunning long-sleeved leather dresses by The Row, and fun, bright, young Chanel jackets with fringe and fringed Chanel dresses underneath, and floral Givenchy ensembles accessorized with intricate lace-up heels, and “fit-and-flare” Alexander McQueen numbers that showed off toned legs and flat tummies. There were snakeskin leggings and paper-thin leather jackets and delicious, cream-colored, demure silk blouses to counterbalance their edginess. There was encrusted, embellished everything. Stunned by the bright-fuchsia, bejeweled jacket a tall blond mother of three wore as she swept through the halls for drop-off one morning, I googled it in my office later—and learned that its price tag was over $7,000.

  But it wasn’t just about being able to pay. There was a premium placed, among a certain rarefied set of moms within the already rarefied Upper East Side setting, on being first. I learned this when a fashion-forward mother of two showed up one February morning in a white cotton dress with what looked like gold leaf on the front, and studded, neon-green slingbacks. She was shivering, but she had crossed the finish line before anyone else. And now the rest of us, if we should wear this particular dress, would be merely imitating her. This happened in early fall, too—women decked out in their autumnal finery, light wools and new boots and the latest Chanel jacket in spite of the warmth that still hung in the air. Plenty of women in Manhattan love fashion. But this was something else again, this showing up everybody else by wearing it first, this joyless-seeming race to have it before others did, and display it best.

  Intrasexual competition—competing with other species members of your own sex—is a widespread evolutionary selection pressure. For many years, primatologists and biologists focused almost exclusively on male intrasexual competition, probably because it was so conspicuous. Adaptations such as larger body size, weaponry, ritualized displays used in aggressive contests, and dramatic ornamentation and behavior in courtship displays are all plain to see and pretty easy to interpret. They give the guy of the species an advantage in procuring and keeping access to a breeding female, or several of them, the evolutionary endgame for males of every stripe, feather, and shoe size.

  More recently, however, biologists and primatologists have shifted their focus to the subtler aspects of female intrasexual competition. Mostly, female mammals—be they mice or chimps or Homo sapiens—are competing, when they need to, for breeding opportunities and to attract preferred mates, just as males do. But for females, the expression of aggression is context specific. If a female house mouse (Mus musculus domesticus) is living without a lot of other female house mice nearby, and there are plenty of males in the mix, her body won’t bother to secrete the special proteins (MUPs) that give her urine a strong scent that clearly communicates “Stay away!” to other female house mice. Surrounded by other female mice, however, her urine changes dramatically so she can get her message across: “This is my turf, ladies!” Such plasticity has evolved because competitive signaling, as biologists call it, is costly. It takes energy and time to secrete those proteins, energy and time that could otherwise be expended by females on maintaining good nutrition, optimizing fertility, seeking nesting materials, being pregnant, lactating, and caring for one’s young.

  Because aggression is potentially dangerous and competitive signaling is costly, it is now believed, female mammals, including primates, have learned over the eons to compete “under the radar.” That is, they inflict social rather than physical violence through coalitions, subtle signals, and nonphysical aggression. When female chimps exclude and ignore and harass a new female transfer to the troop, they are making their point—“You’re a rung below us”—without ever putting themselves or their offspring at physical risk the way an actual bodily assault could. Among human females, refusal to cooperate with someone, destruction of her reputation (so that others will refuse to cooperate with her), gossip, and social exclusion are all effective ways to devastate a potential competitor. And, because punishments are often delivered circuitously and simultaneously by several group members, there is no “defending” oneself. The nasty looks and holier-than-thou attitudes of the Queen of the Queen Bees and her acolytes in the school halls and playgroups went unconfronted because they were subtle, compared with a punch to the solar plexus. But they were similar in their effectiveness.

  Acutely aware of males’ taste for novelty, scientists have observed, female primates in established groups may be intensely vigilant about and hostile toward female newcomers, particularly when sex ratios are skewed in males’ favor, as they are so dramatically on the Upper East Side, where there are two reproductive females for every male. Escalated aggression between females, scientists who study it te
ll us, is reserved for just such intensely competitive situations, which yield high reproductive reward, or the defense (or perceived defense) of one’s mate status or one’s offspring. And the aggression is, as we saw with mice, “plastic,” that is, tailored to the specific environment, ecological conditions, and resources. That is why one mom, at soccer practice, refused to turn around or acknowledge me at all when I told her, three times, sitting just behind her, that my son would like to join the summer playgroup she was organizing. That is why, when another mom intervened and said, “Wednesday’s son, too,” the high-ranking mom said, back still turned to me, “Fine. Caroline, Nancy, Sarah, Pamela, Daniela, Julia, and her.” That is why, looking at the same white cotton embellished dress the fashion-forward mom had worn to drop-off in February as it hung in my own closet, I felt that she had soaked it with her pee.

  Even if this covert competition and aggression was less costly in the biological sense, it must be really expensive, I figured. What, I wondered aloud to Candace as our Cobb salads materialized before us, did one do in order to be a beautiful-enough woman with children in this world? And how much did it cost in actual dollars and cents? Candace’s hazel eyes, free of crow’s-feet thanks to good genes, good diet, and some good, strategic recent Botox, lit up. “Let’s figure it out!” she suggested. Why hadn’t we thought of this before? Our salads were soon forgotten—this was more fun than eating. When we were done, our notes about what we guessed a Manhattan Geisha of the Upper East Side tribe I was studying did for and spent on her upkeep—based on conversations, observations, and a heavily padded version of what we did for ourselves—looked like this:

  Head-to-toe analysis of annual cost of self-maintenance for high-mid- to high-ranking UES woman with kids in private school

  Hair and scalp

  Haircut & color (5x/year @ $500) $2.5K and blowout (weekly @ $70 per, incl. tip) $3.5K = $6K

  Hair & makeup stylist for events (10x/year @ $150) = $1.5K

  Consult and follow-up w/specialist who does not accept insurance, regarding hair loss due to color, stress, hormones, and/or autoimmune issues caused by stress and hormones = $2K

  Face

  Quarterly Botox, Restylane, and fillers ($1,000 x 4) = $4K

  Monthly peel ($300 x 12) = $3.6K

  Monthly facial ($250 x 12) = $3K

  Monthly brows: waxing, tweezing, sugaring, or stringing ($50 x 12) = $600

  Laser (for sun damage, collagen stimulation, etc.) = $2.5K

  Facial skin-care products (cleaner, moisturizer, serum, sunblock, eye cream) = $1.5K

  Facial makeup = $1K

  Body

  Exercise classes = $3.5K

  Personal trainer = $7.5K

  Nutritionist = $1.5K

  Juice cleanses = $3.5K if weekly

  Mani/pedi = $2K

  Massage = $9K if weekly; $4.5K if biweekly

  Spray tan = $500

  Spa getaway/s = $8K if biannually

  Plastic surgery incl. breast augmentation, lipo = wild-card items

  Wardrobe

  Clothing

  Seasonal F/W = $3K–20K

  Seasonal SP/SU = $3K–20K

  Events = $5K–20K

  Resort/vacation

  Hamptons = $5K

  Palm Beach = $5K

  Aspen (ski jacket, pants, hat/s, gloves) = $2.5K

  Other

  Shoes/boots = $5–8K

  Bags = $5–10K

  “Stupefying,” Candace pronounced as we tallied the numbers and put our credit cards on the table. Something like $95,000, on the low end, just to be beautiful enough and well-enough dressed and well-enough shod and sufficiently well tended to be in the game. “We are not telling our husbands,” she intoned seriously as we kissed good-bye and parted on the street. Although maybe that would have been a good idea, since we were cheap dates compared with others we knew. “Hey!” she shouted seconds later from the window of the cab she had just hopped into: “We didn’t even count drivers and Ubers to get to and from the stores and appointments!” She was right. But I didn’t have the appetite to revisit our figures. I felt dizzy. In spite of this fact, I had an outfit to plan, and some shopping to do.

  And so I came to find myself puzzling over what to wear to a girls’ night in. I knew that many of the women I now spent time with hired hair and makeup artists, sometimes even to prep them for lunch at Rotisserie Georgette with girlfriends, and personal stylists to curate their wardrobes—for parties and events but also, astonishingly, for school pickup and drop-off. Manhattan retail is a byzantine, two-tier system, one to be worked and massaged by a knowledgeable insider if you want to get the only size 0 in the city. Anyone can walk into Prada. And that is why, in addition to a stylist, you “need” a dedicated salesperson at your store or stores of choice. She texts you photos of new arrivals you might like, and when you show up, puts you in the biggest dressing room and brings you water and champagne while you try the clothes on. Don’t have time to come in? She can send things to your home via messenger “on approval.” Many women wear them and return them after. Later in the season, your salesperson calls and whispers, “When can I presale you?” Translation: “When can you come in so I can let you have first crack at stuff that will be on sale in a month, that I can give you at sale price now?” The women of the tribe demanded special perks and plenty of privacy in their retail experiences, that’s for sure. Often there were charity events at exclusive boutiques after hours, where you could browse with friends at your side and a drink in your hand, and a portion of every dollar you spent was donated to a good cause: the Guggenheim, Children’s Aid, the Children’s Museum of the East End—you name it, it had a charity shopping night at Chanel, Lanvin, Dolce&Gabbana, or Dior.

  Thanks to some “shopping-for-a-cause events,” I was now able, rummaging through my tees and pants and riffling through my closet, to settle on a pair of bright-pink snakeskin-patterned skinny trousers of stretchy denim, a simple, boxy white T-shirt with an embroidered red-and-black flower front and center, and a bright green Chanel knock-off jacket with fringe at the wrists and along the front placket. I knew that, incredibly, nothing about this getup would seem over-the-top to the women at Rebecca’s.

  Now I just needed to figure out what to wear on my feet. Most of the homes I went to were by now “shoes off,” parents all over Manhattan having embraced the custom of not bringing street ick into the home via one’s soles. But I strongly suspected that, at this girls’ night in, we would be allowed to wear our shoes. It would make these women feel too vulnerable, I figured, to forfeit the reassuring sensation of being a little taller and a little skinnier. Being barefoot would make them feel undone and exposed. Rebecca would know that. Pulling out one of the slingback booties I always wore “out,” I saw that its heel was cracked. There wasn’t time to get it fixed at Leather Spa, and I didn’t have a lot of other options in my closet. And so I found myself at one of the tribe’s two fashion altars: Barneys. The one on Madison, of course.

  “All shoes are six hundred dollars,” the salesman observed with a shake of his head as I tried on the ravishing beauties in every heel height and configuration he had chosen when I told him about the evening in my near future—D’Orsay pumps, stilettos, stacked heels—and gasped at the numbers. “And all boots,” he added as I anxiously flipped over a supple navy suede boot I liked to check the price affixed to its sole, “are twelve hundred.” Now he peeled back the tissue paper from a Christian Louboutin open-toed, platform slingback mule of black suede with red and pink stripes and observed sagely, “These are sick.”

  This last shoe was indeed a winner, like a piece of candy for the feet, yet sturdy enough that I didn’t wobble on it. And it was on sale. Still, I fretted that, given its height and the way it pinched my left big toe, it wasn’t precisely a wise investment. “You could always just wear them for short periods,” the salesman mused. “And if you have a longer evening ahead of you, you could get one of those injections.”

  Come again?
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  Hadn’t I heard, he laughed, of the shots to numb your feet, or part of them, so you could do a whole night in killer heels? Apparently there were podiatrists who acted as enablers of women with high-heel fixations here and in Hollywood, and they could fix me up—or rather, shoot me up—for a price. I raised my eyebrows in disbelief, figuring the salesman was having me on. “For realsies.” He smiled as I surrendered my Amex, making the universal sign for “crazy” with his finger next to his ear.

  Beauty isn’t cheap. And mostly, it is women who bear the brunt of its many costs—the not infrequently harrowing requirements of time, energy, and sheer physical fortitude that prompted our grandmothers to observe, “Beauty hurts.” This truism holds across countries and cultures—in China, where the practice of foot binding crippled generations of aristocratic women; in Thailand, where women of the Kayan tribe wear metal necklaces to give the impression of an elongated neck (they are actually pushing their cervical and shoulder bones down); and in the African and Amazonian tribes where plates stretch the lips until, in some cases, they are the size and shape of a CD. Among the tribe of women I studied on the Upper East Side, “beauty” might mean an augmentation that left your breasts rigid and plastic-seeming in appearance and numb to the touch, making literal the idea that women are objects who supply sensation for others, rather than subjects who enjoy feeling it themselves. Or it might mean injections to make your face stiller, “fuller,” tauter, and more strategically plumped (to convey youthfulness and prevent wrinkles), but at a price.

  Studies suggest that being unable to move your face empathically as you listen to someone speak reduces feelings of connection. In essence, numbing your face very likely numbs your emotions: Botoxed subjects show less brain-scan activity in key emotional regions than do the un-Botoxed. All in the quest for a youthful face for others to gaze upon. And then what? Confronted with a motionless face, one that expresses nothing as we speak to its owner, we humans feel confounded, disconnected, and distressed. I certainly did, the day I ran into a friend who stared at me blankly throughout our five-minute chat on the street, issuing insincere-seeming laughs as I shared a funny anecdote about my kids. Was she angry? Had I offended her last time I’d seen her? I didn’t think so. Then I recalled that, at our last encounter, she had been on the way to her dermatologist.