Last week, I was learning future parenting lessons by being a nanny for an uber-rich family in New York City. I figured out a lot that J1 summer of 1997. We flew from New York to Long Island one weekend, on their private plane, natch.
When we landed, their driver brought us to their Montauk mansion. Now, I grew up in a house full of people. There were four of us in the girls’ bedroom, hand-me-downs were the norm, good luck getting the bathroom to yourself, and the younger you were, the further down the seat pecking order you were, which meant for the first half of my life, TV was enjoyed from the floor.
But I never remember anyone being too bothered about it; it was a happy house. This family had every possible luxury, no thirdhand bath water for them, and yet, they had this aura of dissatisfaction oozing out of them. It was not a happy house.
It was a good lesson for me at that age, when I was very conscious of money and how it can equate to freedom and fun and travel. Saving money from stacking shelves in Roches Stores for two years equals a plane ticket to America. Now that may not sound like much of a sacrifice, but you didn’t see the uniform.
Calf-length, mawky green, thick material. Great for when you had a clean-up on aisle four, but not so good for the fashion reputation. (Side note: I broke SO many jars of jam and honey, I sometimes wonder if I was in some way responsible for Roches going out of business.
WHY did they insist on putting me on breakables? It was li.
