When I was growing up, I was constantly being reminded that you must earn what you have. (And, if something bad happens, that you probably earned that, too.) I can remember people always stopping my mother — at the McDonald’s drive-through, the mall, the grocery store — to tell her how beautiful she was. She always blushed and half-smiled (she, like me, is self-conscious about her teeth), thanked them with a laugh, and then diverted the attention to whichever one of her four “handsome” boys was closest. Later, as we’d walk away, she’d attribute the compliment to her diligent skin-care ritual, or the makeup technique she had picked up at the counter last weekend. Just last week, she even called me to let me know that someone thought she was my brother’s sister, which she owed to the right mix of Dior Glow Maximizer Primer and Clé de Peau foundation. (She calls me every. Single. Time. This happens.)
To a lot of guys, when they think of 
The Socialites 