So I was terribly pleased to contrive this little trick.

I took a page from the man’s tradition of shirt and tie. Sweep of color across the chest, pattern and contrast around the neck.

Translating to business casual for women, “Shirt” is pronounced “Cashmere V-Neck,” and “Tie,” “Collared Buttonfront.” We also say “Golf” as “Blah blah blah,” but that’s another matter.

When I started this new job, I tottered bravely off in a black v-neck with purple gingham underneath. Little did I know I had begun as I would continue.

Most recently, I acquired the Anna Mashburn orange striper, above, and a paisley confection from Liberty of London. I wear them both under navy. What sartorial adventures a sturdy shade makes possible. I wouldn’t wear navy with blue seersucker, however. Even I avoid dressing Too Sedately.

Then, when so much exuberance tasks my High WASP soul, I button it all up, literally, and figuratively, with gray stripes under black.

We send signals at work, like it or not. May as well enjoy the flags.

Sweaters: Purple Brora, navy Land’s End, Black-something-or-other
Shirts: J. Crew Liberty print, J. Crew seersucker, J. Crew gingham, Anna Mashburn orange, Liberty of London paisley, Charles Tyrwhitt gray stripes.

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1. Age. We’ve established some arbitrary legal definitions, here in the US. Does anyone think that’s the answer? No? I didn’t think so.
2. Biological capabilities. Once one can have children? Uh, clearly not. Lift 250 lbs at the gym? Please excuse the silliness, we’re illustrating a point. Insufficient.
3. Events. Graduation from school, marriage, birth of a child, taking on a mortgage? Still insufficient.
4. The capability to sustain a host of such events? Getting closer.

If positive identifiers cannot solve the problem, let’s try reductionism. Do we know what an adult is not? I think the only unquestionable statement we can make is that an adult is not a child. So what is a child?

1. A young person. But we’ve established that leaving youth behind doesn’t guarantee full adulthood.
2. A child is someone who cannot fend for themselves.

Yes. Adults must be able to fend for themselves. Eat, sleep, pay bills, on their own. Sufficient definition? Still, to me, no. Human society has evolved beyond sufficiency, beyond just staying alive, and so has our concept of adulthood.

My son was talking to me the other day about a philosophy class he’s considering. He explained that in the last century, under the stress of science, philosophy separated into two schools. The Analytic and the Continental. Right then and there you know that one involves kippered herring and the other, chocolate croissants. Unsurprisingly, the path to meaning tends toward chocolate.

In essence, the Continental idea, which I believe to be true, is that we get at real understanding about people via narrative and emotion. That neither binary logic nor reductive reasoning do the trick.

The real question then. When do we feel like adults? Whatever your own voice says is probably right.

Myself, I feel like an adult when I’m crackling with perspective. Perspective in the artist’s sense, i.e. creating distance to intensify reality. I think of those moments when I rise above immediate events and see against the context of time. Or put myself in someone else’s shoes, and know how they feel.

Or, particularly, when I understand my own self with perspective. If adults were wizards, we’d chant Maybe Yes Maybe No as our Spell of Spells. In an understanding of choice, you take the first step towards responsibility. That’s another aspect of my own definition of growing up.

Here’s what I believe, most of all. Adulthood entails demystifying personal necessity. Inevitably, the needs of others surface in the cleared space. I feel most like an adult when I care for others as though they were in some way my own child.

But this is just my story, in the morning, with tea and thoughts of chocolate. Yours may be different – no one is apt to tell it but you.

Thank you @alilnapaz and @katiethecoxie for asking. As always, visit Delia for more thoughtful, long-running meditations on adulthood.

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Tommy Hilfiger was born on March 24th, 1951 – most likely with the real name of Thomas Jacob Hilfiger. On February 9, 2012, he (to be more precise, his exceptionally civil and personable PR rep) offered a giveaway to the readers of Privilege.

We cannot, however, give away a perfume called “Eau de Prep,” and the accompanying stash of “preppy” goods, without a little deconstruction. We have to ask ourselves, what IS “Prep?” We have to ask ourselves, “Is Tommy Hilfiger the brand, “Prep?” Are these giveaway goods, “Prep?” And, most importantly, what on earth does “Eau de Prep” smell like?

Lacrosse socks?

I began writing Privilege, almost 3 years ago, partly in response to “Preppy” blogs. I wrote in a state of high dudgeon. I thought people were misinterpreting my High WASP culture, marketing it widely and marketing it badly. Silly LPC.

The idea of “Prep” retains few traces of origin. It’s a construct now, nothing more, nothing less. Muffy Aldrich, at Daily Prep, is the only blog I’ve seen that reclaims “Preppy,” as originally coined. Susan at The Preppy Princess stays close. Otherwise, the idea has been remade with broad lifestyle strokes..

The powers that be have included plaid in the Preppy palette. My mother might find this bag “good-looking,” The plasticized canvas is not quite up to snuff, but if Louis Vuitton can do it, who are we to call foul? At least the logo is discreet.

I myself am very fond of this notebook. I’d enter the giveaway for the pleasure of its fabric alone.

Somehow Greek key patterns (is that what they are called, in fact?), along with bamboo, also wound up in the Prep pile. To me, these say Palm Beach, but never mind.

The red watch might squeak in under the Prep tent flap. I do not believe that gray leopard earmuffs belong.  However, again, the task of definition is not mine.

Wait, the perfume. What about the perfume?

It smells like cooked sugar. Something a teen girl might quite like. The entire stash would make any teenage girl who identifies as “Prep” very happy. Since this is “Eau de Prep,” Tommy Girl, I think they’ve got it. By God I think they’ve got it.

Finally, we ask, like any good student returning to our introduction, is the Tommy Hilfiger brand “Prep?” I say, it is if it wants to be. Fly free, little construct. Ralph Lauren changed his name. I hope the Hilfiger brand never becomes Thomas Hill. I prefer the commercial idea of “Prep” when it has nothing to do with last names, parents, professions, ethnicities, or origin. Logically coherent, but sui generis. Punk, goth, prep, and done. Smelling sugarlike as we go.

This giveaway is open only to previous commentors and blog subscribers. While I applaud entrepreneurs who write highly entertaining comments in search of goods to resell on eBay, it would be rude to participate in brand erosion. After all, Tommy Hilfiger is giving us presents, and A Simple Thank You will suffice. They even said it was OK if I made fun of the perfume name. Now that is tolerance, and I applaud tolerance. Please write something, anything, about perfume you have either loved or loathed. Scent tends to bring out strong feelings in us all, brand or no brand, deconstructed or not.

Thank you Tommy H., for this abundant stash of loot. I opened the box like a kid. A copy of True Prep is also included, but you’ll just have to take my word on that.

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With an open slate, who would you invite? Only people who know how to banter, who understand that two conflicting opinions can both be true. They should not take themselves too seriously. While the rules of this exercise forbid inviting relatives or simple friends, I can’t comply. Dinner parties are best when some people meet for the first time as others interact with habitual camaraderie.

Here’s my list.

1. Dorothy Parker – I want to be there for the invention of a witticism, or perfect turn of phrase. “What fresh hell is this?” the favorite so far.
2. Nora Ephron – I want to hear the real stories of her journalist days and Hollywood nights. Also, compare necks.
3. Oscar Wilde – He needs another go-round, especially now that New York is on board. Had his only recourse been Iowa, not so sure.
4. Donald Trump – Yes. I’m serious. I loved him in the first Apprentice. Although he now focuses more on The Donald Show than on the real thing, I appreciate a good entrepreneur like nobody’s business. Or everybody’s. Seriously, can you imagine Oscar trying to understand Donald? He and Dot sparring over politics. Politely, of course? (Warning: His website is loud. Surprised?)
5. Me – You don’t think I would miss this, do you?
6. Significant Other – Without him nearby, I’m prone to vibrate at far too high a pitch
7. Old Friend – When I was married, we were friends with a glorious couple. Journalists, with a sense of humor and enormous personal warmth. They moved to Northern Europe, I got divorced, we lost touch. I’d bring them back, just for the dinner. They’d tell stories of their travels, and listen rapt to everyone else.
8. Old Friend’s husband – He is just as lovely as she
9. Father – Let’s just say that some famous couple or other, oh, Beyonce and Jayz and their baby, cancel at the last minute. Those things happen. Maybe they had to go sing for the President’s family. Who knows. In any case, I will pick up the phone and invite my father and his wife. Professors make good dinner party guests – when silence falls they can speak about something obscure, in that particular slow cadence, until inspiration strikes the others.
10. Father’s wife – Hold no party without an artist. If we were lucky, she’d take some photos of the evening. Facebook never had it so good.

And where would we assemble, you might wonder? I’d order up a rare warm Northern California night. We’d pull the dining table out on the slate patio. Snip back the hanging branches of the backyard Chinese elm, and hang a chandelier outdoors. Layer on textures in neutrals, eat from dignified china and silver, add a touch of silly with bright glassware. Oxymoronic design loosens tongues. As does exceptional wine.

What to wear? In California, we’re always pretty casual. The best tricks I know to dress up the natively informal are:

1. Rely on monochrome
2. Show your best skin
3. One piece of startlingly fancy jewelry
4. Wear sparkly shoes and a flattering nail polish
5. Keep those shoes on until you serve the food

And the food. Ah yes, the food. People should feel well-cared for. This is important. Everything prepared from scratch. Even the salsa, if you serve it. Even the blue cheese dressing.

You also want everyone to find something they’re happy to eat. So we’d need two main dishes, and a vegetarian side that can count as a main. Also, despite how fetching you look in a kitchen apron, best not to be stir-frying at the last minute. Advice I’ve ignored repeatedly – as evidenced by a pattern of burns on my right arm.

So let’s choose Potted Chicken from Jan’s recipe, and  Pork Adobo in the slow cooker. Vegetables as per the season. Even fancy people like simple food. Mashed potatoes, some with dairy, some without. You have to consider dietary restrictions. Salad made from front yard garden lettuce.

Focused on comfort for the main course, we’d go a little fanciful for dessert. It’s hard to ruin chocolate, and burned sugar smells delicious. So make brulé tiles in the shapes of letters, and anchor them in Boston cream filled cupcakes. Serve with a large bowl of ripe strawberries dressed in balsamic vinegar. Superfine and raw sugar on the table in a crystal bowl.

Sugar hidden in processed foods may be evil but out in the open it’s all right by me.

Then at the end of the night, bring out mid-century artifacts. Dinner mints, chocolates, and brandy. Watch as people’s faces light up. Realize, happily, that you’re going to be up past your bedtime. The privilege of grownups.

For more posts, and more dinner parties, click here.

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Google says there has been unusual activity in my account, and requires that I give them a phone number to get back in. Not an email account, mind you. I’d be fine with that. I’m set up for that. But I’m don’t want to give Google my phone numbers. Not my landline, and certainly not my mobile. It feels like life-tracking ransom. I suspect, perhaps wrongly, that this is part of their efforts to unseat the iPhone and make the Android platform more valuable.

And I wonder, will Google doom themselves with their own ubiquitous success? Other infrastructure industries were eventually regulated, railways, gas lines, telephone service. As a result, anyone who wants to record a phone call has to prove necessity. Google, however, can track us six ways from Sunday. I’ve assumed no evil intent; I’m not particularly Libertarian. But one wonders. “Fie upon the rascals!” I say. “Fie upon their bullying user interface!”

I am perhaps making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe it’s innocent. Maybe I’m just not seeing the button, or the link, to “If you don’t want to give us your phone number, here’s another security verification process.” I welcome anyone who can show me my mistake. I prefer a world without underhandedness of any sort.

In the meantime,  friends and family, in case you wonder why I’m not answering any Gmail, I’m holding out. Holding out with my old friend Yahoo. Who, although they might have wanted to own the world, just weren’t up to it. Capitalism is sometimes best in its more docile incarnation.

UPDATE: I sent a message into the deep depths of Google help, and received the following email in reply. <<We apologize for any inconvenience you may have experienced. The issue you described should now be resolved.>> Guess what. There are people in there. All is not lost. Happy Sunday to all.

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This is one of my most favorite hotels in the world. Since it’s in the Starwood network, they take Starwood points. Booyah. Given its dignified, urban decor, sleek with exotic woods and unpolished marble, one might think it suitable only for fancy sorts. In fact, one could not find a better reward for umpteen nights in Sheratons, and the resultant time away from home, than to bring the family to San Francisco.

Where you will sleep in a bedroom like this.

The taupe, gold, and grayed blue palette speaks to me like Morgan le Fay across a gin martini. Seductive, ageless, with a twist.

Of course, you might want to move the bedroom succulents if you bring very young children. Otherwise, they make for nicely focused meditation. We’re big meditators here in Northern California.

Do watch the kiddies’ noggins in the enormous bathtub. Luckily you can see the tub from your lush bed, if you open the panel between rooms. Notice the artwork hanging on the bedroom wall. Artwork abounds.

The whole family will be happy about breakfast. From the silver teapot to the truffled frittata to the brioche French toast. Delicious.

Dinner will come round eventually. The bar doesn’t seem to mind if a well-behaved kid, and her many adults, settle into a post-prandial sofa. We ate, by the way, at Prospect. Very good place for groups in which some eat a Mad Men kind of diet, and others prefer the nose-to-tail approach. SF foodies might take their cousins from elsewhere to dinner, quite happily.

The highlight of our evening was a nighttime swim. Imagine this pool, illuminated, dark sky and city lights in the windows. Imagine most of us sat in the alcove you see at back, while the niece and her father swam. We all felt the this is special switch click on, tick, endorphins and recognition spreading throughout our bodies. This can happen anywhere, especially with family. Hospitable water ups your odds.

The tiles of the showers that line the pool walls verge on the Hearstian.

And when the joys of hotel living pale, one can saunter out. Those flowers will still be sitting in the lobby.

The St. Regis is right next to San Francisco’s convention center, Moscone. And in true California style, we’ve got a garden slash park slash skating rink up top. It’s called Yerba Buena. Take a merry-go-round, a park with giant slide, add modern architecture and our January blue skies. What’s not to like? (OK, so you may have to ignore the smell of marijuana. Apparently the name, Yerba Buena, has multiple meanings. It’s California. What can I say?)

If you’ve still got some energy, or the kids do, head up past Market Street. You’ll come to another part of San Francisco that children love. Me too. Chinatown.

Speaking of which, Happy Lunar New Year to all. We love our tourists in this city, we depend on you. So please come visit some time, even if you’re not going to stay at the St. Regis. May and September are particularly nice, and don’t forget to wear layers. You’ll wind up carrying your kids’ fleeces, but life is ever such. Besides, we’re very good at salads.

No remuneration was received for this post. The opinions are wholly my own.

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First, we have the INIMITABLE Maximinimus, on about LV trunks. And yes, I did need to use the vociferous upper case. I had lunch with Maxi last week and the man is sui generis. Writes the heck out of everything and gives good advice, too.

Second, we have Miss Sophie, of Les Anti-Modernes, with a brief discourse on her Sofia bag. Miss Sophie is in Shanghai right now, so I didn’t have lunch with her at all.

Quite sneaky, those Vuittons. Capitalizing on society’s love for logo-led luxury, but quite capable of the Real Deal. Don’t count out the French economy, if Arnault has anything to say about it.

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Maybe you eat in the morning. Maybe you don’t.

I think it’s time to relinquish shame. You like breakfast? Eat it. You don’t? Ignore with impunity. Never mind the diet pundits. 55 years of life have convinced me that breakfast is one area where everyone gets to decide for themselves.

The world is full enough of should already. Enjoy your toast, your smoked salmon, your egg white omelette, your cruller. Or not.

Have a wonderful weekend.

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Nobody wants to look like an unrelenting rectangle, cashmere or otherwise. On to the glorious v-neck. And on to a sampling from Land’s End, Madewell, Pure Collection, and Brora.

You might want to know how the brands compare. Well, no sooner said than done. We’ll take the business approach, leading with an executive summary.

Cashmere Comparison Summary

• Land’s End. Oblong styling, hand (feel) a bit slippery but nicely substantial. Kept. $140.
• Pure Collection. Shorter than Land’s End, more nipped in round the waist, hand similar to Land’s End, color WAY off from web and catalog. Returned. $138 list price, on sale for $70-$103.
• Madewell. The model I bought is called the Cabin Sweater for good reason. Styled like a loose-middled long-sleeved pocket tee, very boyfriend-esque. One could wear it quite happily in, yes, a cabin. Hand, soft, not slippery, not heavy. Kept. $158 list price, only XS remains, on sale for $99.
• Brora. Classic styling with a slight edge, low v, arms a little long, banded waist, hand to die for, i.e. strong, a little prickle that softens to heavenly. List price £195, on sale for £145. (This comes out to about $225. Conversion via XE, but we’re full service around here.) Kept, with the hope of more in future.

Operational Detail

This is the part where we give more information for you executives who have not already begun to yearn for your email, or, these days, check it on laptop or mobile device.

Land’s End

Perfectly serviceable. True Navy is just that, true. Not too dark, not too purple, not too perky. V is moderately deep. No shaping of note, but nothing wrong either. I worry only that the cashmere is slippery because, as the Queen of Cashmere told us in her extremely useful interview here, it’s of lower quality and has been “washed” for this effect. We will have to see how the knit endures.

Madewell

This is what I wore here. I love this piece, but in all honesty, it’s not really a work sweater. I bought a size M, returned it thinking it was too big, and realized upon receiving the S that it’s SUPPOSED to be big. I couldn’t bear to return yet again, so I wear as is. But since it’s a) of lightweight cashmere b) a little tight in the arms, I can’t wear a button front underneath. If this sweater were to magically appear in a black, or, I dunno, forest green, I’d buy two in a size and live in them on the weekends. At a guess, Madewell relies on the J. Crew cashmere empire, so I’d recommend a J. Crew v-neck if the styling and colors suit you. ($168)

Pure Collection

This sweater felt like the Land’s End version, but was shorter in the torso and longer in the sleeve. I was so mad that the Blue Haze was in fact Smog Grey that I bundled everything back up and returned it on the next post. At that point they were out of Indigo, so I broke up with Pure and am still sulking in my tent like Achilles.

Brora

Well this is what cashmere is supposed to feel like. Tough – but another dimension of soft altogether. Worn here, this is the sweater I want to put on almost every day. Roomy enough for a button front underneath, sufficient shape for a little je ne sais quoi. A term I use advisedly, as in I really can’t articulate what gives this sweater such silhouette style. BTW, for anyone converting to British sizes, I’m a size 4 in J. Crew tops, and a size 12 in Brora sweaters.

Let me add a few additional data points from my chequered cashmere past. My mother gave me a Bloomingdale’s private label black v-neck two years ago. I like the silhouette, here, but it’s pilling like crazy already. Four or five years ago my sister gave me, at my request, a navy twinset from Isle of Skye. It’s too scratchy. I want my cashmere tough but not hostile. My favorite sweater ever, shown here, came from TSE. They’re doing a lot of yellowish this year so I’m out of luck. Those who favor burned hues, enjoy.

Other people swear by Eric Bompard. This may be my next experiment, on sale (~$205) until February 14. Especially if Duchesse will tell me what size I ought to order.

I will add that I pass right by all Brunello Cucinelli, despite the mythic mountain village which ostensibly knits their goods. I cannot imagine anything worth five times what I paid for Brora. Unless it has magic powers to fly me to Italy, in which case, value granted.

I am not sure whether it’s good news or bad that with cashmere, apparently, one gets what one pays for. On the other hand, even when one pays less, it’s a very nice sweater.

By the way, that interview with the Queen of Cashmere may be the most useful post I’ve published, so here’s the link again.

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For example, what do you think of this little red peplumed Moschino number from Yoox? Techno-fabric, zippers, motorcycle cuffs. $232.00 down to $79. Over a ladylike pencil skirt, maybe in apricot? With gray yoga pants, on a weekend? One never knows until one tries. At $79, trying is feasible.

Or give Brooks Brothers a go. The talented designer on their bag team is a fairly well-kept secret. If you want to branch out with a pastel for spring color blocking, perforated aqua leather seems quite the thing. Down from $298 to $119.20. If the patent trim strikes you as too-too, they’ve got classics on sale as well.

Jewelry lovers are not left out of the fun. Alexis Bittar, my favorite non-precious metal guy, has a big sale on now. Just in case you were dreaming of bronze Lucite danglers. Don’t we all want to participate in the Steven Tyler-induced feather trend? Down from $295 to $147.50. Black tee, black pants, and you’re surprising all kinds of people.

Because everyone has an imagination, even the Sturdy. Maybe especially the Sturdy. Have you found anything thrilling in the winter sales?

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