(” . . . a whole weekend of crypto-feminist, manophobic New Age-isms”)

Rightly or wrongly, ex-debutantes and Junior Leaguers get a bad rap. You, no doubt, recall the tale of one who, being quizzed by her friends as to what she’d been thinking of during a long-anticipated “encounter” with a rakish young man, answers “Well, I was thinking I ought to paint the ceiling beige.”

If you happen to be an ex-d or J.L., let us only hope you aren’t one of that kind. If you’re reading this, I will assume you are not. However, when I run into the impossible ones, I can’t help but amuse myself by tweaking their delicate sensibilities. A few examples:

One such woman came up to me on a show grounds recently, complaining (as she scratch, scratch, scratched), that her skin was reacting to the sun producing an annoying, persistent itch. “What was she to do?” she whined.

“I have a solution,” I whispered softly.

A long pause.

“My wife used to have the same problem,” I confided, “but she solved it.”

Another pause, the woman’s intensity and interest spiking.

“Leeches,” I intoned solemnly. “Leeches will make your skin feel better.” The look on her face—similar to the one you make when you realize you’re eating something that should not be consumed—was just so satisfying!

On another occasion I found myself on Miami Beach having agreed to accompany Susan to a Carolyn Myss seminar. While a thousand adoring fans listened to a whole weekend of crypto-feminist, manophobic New Age-isms, I roamed the grounds and shops of the iconic Fountainbleu Hotel where we were quartered. I fear I had voiced some derisive thoughts about the proceedings, so to assuage my guilt, I decided to buy Susan a present. The hotel’s extremely upscale jewelry store was presided over by a fifty-ish ex-deb divorcee—snooty of mien, well-coiffed, dressed to the nines, and wearing an understated single strand of pearls.

I was waffling between two pendants of amber, the larger one about the size of my little finger. She hovered expectantly, sighing, presumably to hurry me along.

“Tell me,” I inquired, “I’m leaning toward this one, but do you think it looks too much like a cockroach?”

Ah, ring up that bug-eyed look again. Success!

And last, as a pair of ex-debutante-types were sitting ringside, auditing a clinic of mine, I overheard them discussing their manicures. They went into great detail, enumerating the pros and cons of the practitioners they had tried. Finally, I turned to them and said, “Well, you know, when my fingernails get grimy and I just can’t get them clean any other way, I make a meatloaf.”

Yesssss! That possum-in-the-headlights expression and

[Editor’s note: Mr. Woods’ text ends here. It indicates he was unable to locate the emoticon of two Junior Leaguers throwing up in their mouths.]