June 26, 2012
In life there are many symbols that alert us to the culture of those around us. The French have Hermes, our gay BFFs have black v-necks, and nicegirls have no plans this weekend. But you can spot a WASB by her pearl earrings, J. Crew garb, and Hotchkiss diploma.
Sounds like a nicegirl right? Wrong. While it’s true that WASBs are definitely Jackies, not Marilyns, it’s also true that they’re not Taylor Swifts. They wouldn’t cry tears over a guitar because they’d never touch a fucking guitar. WASBs are White Anglo-Saxon Betches, read: the betch subset of WASPs. The only thing bluer than a WASB's blood is the circa 1998 Range Rover her fam keeps at the country house.
If you aren’t a WASB, the chances are you don’t know any personally. WASBs are basically positive that they are the greatest people anyone will ever meet because their parents said so. The WASB never wanted to watch Gossip Girl because it “brought back bad memories.” And just like Dan Humphrey, you can’t get an invite to join them because what you really need is the
right white fucking womb.
But for all their exclusivity, the WASB isn’t that hard to find, thanks to her sprinkling of homes in a few locales. She’s in her purest form in New England but can also be found throughout the South and in Southern California. Growing up, she went to prep school, where she had hobbies like horseback riding, ignoring the help, and dating lacrosse legacies.
For college, the WASB goes to schools like UVA, Yale, Vanderbilt, William and Mary, SMU, USC, Washington and Lee, Georgetown, BC and Duke, where she joined a sorority and likely followed her mother’s footsteps and majored in something totally marketable, like being a republican's wife. Her last name holds the door open for her, and you can be sure it doesn't end in a vowel because her ancestors like, invented the green card.
The life of a WASB is actually like, really Xanax, as it's considered poor form to show things like cleavage or emotion. When she does decide to take a much-needed hard-earned vacation, she’s usually just going to another WASBy locale. They can be found in places like Newport, lounging poolside at the Maidstone Club in East Hampton, or Nantucket for a week of wholesome sailing where her dad can show off how awkwardly good shape he's still in. The last time a WASB and her fam went on a cruise it was the Mayflower.
WASBs can drink most betches under the gingham tablecloth. Between four years of boarding school, four years of Bates, and a lifetime of alcoholic parents, pregaming kind of just comes naturally. WASBs are also a bit more aggressive than the typical betch, but that's really just the token of a good field hockey player.
The WASB can also be spotted based on her vocal patterns and taste. WASBy girls even talk differently, but their lockjaw’s from Locust Valley, not too many blowjobs. She dresses like it’s Easter six months out of the year, thinks cashmere belongs at the base of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, and they are who we have to
thank blame for the continued existence of Lilly Pulitzer.
When it comes to bros, nothing makes a WASB sweat like a bro in a sweater vest and pastels. She can easily spot the difference between a wannabe in boat shoes and a pro who is truly yacht. She wouldn’t be caught dead on something as poor as match.com, and anyway, she’s got the fucking Catalina wine mixer, and some guy named Teddy who her mom's been forcing her to hook up with since she was three. She typically meets guys during a round of mixed doubles at Everglades. Or after a round of champagne at Doubles. Or, if she’s desperate, some late-night at Dorrian’s.
Basically, WASBs are like totally down to earth, just not the same earth that hosts McDonalds, bat mitzvahs and struggle. I mean, WASBs can’t help it that they’re so popular and everybody takes Amex... and that their grandparents are like, kinda racist.