In excess

Exclusivity inflation has devalued luxury. Time to get back to basics.

Trigger warning: this post deals with distinctly first-world problems. But I was flying to Chicago a couple of days ago, found myself with a hour to kill, and decided to visit an airport lounge I’d only just gained the right to enter as a result of credit-card spending and whatnot. I was actually pretty excited: the barrier to access seemed high and it touted itself as an oasis in the (admittedly now very nice) LaGuardia desert.

I flashed my card. They zapped my boarding pass. And I turned the corner to … a slightly tarted up version of a shopping mall food court. Presentable grub, a couple of automatic espresso machines, and packed to the gills with decidedly sedentary athleisure-clad travelers clamoring for power outlets and real estate to let the contents of their carry-on bags explode.

Remember when exclusive felt genuinely exclusive?

As a kid, we used to stay at Adelaide’s Hilton International Hotel around Christmas, either heading to or home from spending the holidays at my grandparents’ fruit farm. When it opened in October 1982, the Hilton seemed to be the height of luxury—I mean, it had chocolate mousse for dessert!

“At the time the Hilton was the largest hotel in the state, with 374 rooms, a sophisticated modern bar and a major splash of glamour,” one local website detailed, describing it as “iconic” and a “total—and very welcome—game changer” for a city that had always felt backward compared with Sydney and Melbourne.

Today? Adelaide is overflowing with hotel options and TripAdvisor—admittedly not the most reliable judge of quality, but about the best we have—ranks it 37th out of 69 hotels in the city. In fact, the big three primo hotel brands of my youth—Hilton, Hyatt, and Sheraton—are increasingly places to stay when you have no other choice, overtaken by a gaggle of often stratospherically expensive competitors.

And those are usually packed. In New York City, it’s become almost impossible to find a shoebox-sized room at anything resembling a luxury hotel for less than $500 a night—many are double that. If I wanted to stay at the Aman New York for my birthday next year, I’d be looking at a base price of $2,449 a night, although I could really treat myself with the Aman Suite for just $14,645.

Who has the money for this? Or, more precisely, who’s spending that kind of money? Lots of people you may not expect. And they’re not springing for luxury hotel rooms and designer clothing and exclusive experiences because they can necessarily afford them. Intuit Credit Karma just reported 27% of Americans are “doom spending,” or splurging to cope with stress and uncertainty, much of it … economic.

“Much like doom scrolling, we’re seeing people mindlessly shop to soothe concerns about the economy and foreign affairs, which could take a toll on their financial well being,” said Credit Karma’s Courtney Alev. The survey found 47% of Americans have saved less in the past six months, with 52% estimating they have less than $2,000 in savings or none at all (which is the case for 22% of Americans). So, spend away?

For others, splurging is a question of priorities. As implied by Credit Karma, many consumers—particularly younger ones—seem happy to trade saving for retirement or investing or just putting money in the bank for the dopamine hit of buying a statement item, whether that’s a Hermes bag or a luxury car.

Peer pressure plays a role, naturally. I’ve noted before the pernicious effect of seeing the misleadingly curated social-media feeds of people boarding private jets or sitting court side or lounging in luxury somewhere, dripping in suitably garish designer duds. As a convert to the guilty pleasure that is the Real Housewives franchise, I’d cite those woman as exhibit A—there’s intense competition among them to be seen in the latest luxury abomination and they’re scathing of anyone wearing or carrying a knock-off.¹

The inevitable consequence of this commoditization of luxury—which was dramatically accelerated by brands like Tiffany and Gucci juicing consumer demand for entry-level products—was for the truly wealthy to shift the goalposts. That’s why “quiet luxury” became the rage, with the ultimate flex shelling out $525 for a Loro Piana baseball cap or $6,500 for a Brunello Cucinelli cardigan. “I’m so rich,” the theory went, “that I can afford to spend a boatload to replicate a look achievable for way less money.”

I guess the point of all that was to signal “if you know, you know” to fellow understated luxury types, but I’ve lately been struggling to justify spending large and small, which is a little jarring for someone who’s always been firmly in the surround yourself with beauty camp. I still am—and it would be lovely not to never have to think about cost, of course. But there’s definitely been a shift in my priorities.

It feels we’ve reached the point of exclusivity inflation that’s led to nothing really feeling exclusive. You can monogram anything and everything. Every second person seems to be toting a Louis Vuitton handbag. Every concert offers backstage this or VIP that. It’s forcing companies to keep concocting new ways to try to make products and services more unattainable—revamped pointy ends of the plane! Private jet world tours!—and the bar just keeps rising.

That leaves a person with two choices: keep going or stop. I mean, what’s the point of having some designer bag if you’ve saved nothing for retirement? Or driving a luxury car if you can barely afford the insurance? I guess it really struck me a few days ago when I booked tickets back home and had that inevitable moment of hesitation about the cost: “Geez, that’s a lot of money. Is this the best way to spend it?”

Yes. Yes, it is. There’s nothing I’d rather spend money on than experiences with my family, near and far. I love my espresso machine, sure. But I’d trade that in a heartbeat for my boys to spend more time with their grandma. Nice watch? Yep, but nothing compared to a vacation with Elevator Girl. I today find myself continually making what I initially viewed as tradeoffs but have now come to see is simply prioritizing what truly matters.

Maybe the luxury end point will see all of us become so tired of conspicuous consumption and keeping up with the Joneses that we collectively adopt much simpler needs. America will always have insane wealth: it’s poor country filled with people so rich that the top 400 of them are worth a collective $5.4 trillion—three times the size of Australia’s economy. But the reality is you’ve never heard of most of them. Chicago’s Reyes family is worth $19.9 billion from a food and beverage distribution empire. The Smith family’s $19.8 billion comes largely from Illinois Tool Works. Michigan’s Stryker family is worth $15.9 billion through a medical device and technology company. Cleveland’s Haslam family has a $14.4 billion truck-stop empire. Florida’s Jenkins family is sitting on grocery stores worth $11.2 billion.

I haven’t researched enough to declare all these people go about their business quietly, or that they don’t have a fleet of G-Wagens. I’d bet some don’t. But it does feel like a more modest approach to wealth and luxury may be returning, especially in the wake of a jarring presidential election partly fueled by growing rage over yawning inequality.

Ironically, the catalyst could be the crass, tasteless, shameless, fake wealthy, nepo baby, buys-his-own-country-club-because-no-real-club-wants-him guy that more than half the country’s voters decided to plump for. It was once again telling that so few people in Manhattan voted for Trump: he received just 17% support last week, although that was above the 13% he received four years earlier and the less than 10% of 2016. Manhattan is a litmus test for arrivistes like him—despite his desperation to be accepted, Trump never cracked the city or its society circles, which still view him as a boorish clown who behaves as no one should.

For all the faults—and there are many, many faults—of this country’s gilded class over the centuries, a few admirable features remained constant. The 1980 classic The Official Preppy Handbook, in which editor Lisa Birnbach lovingly but satirically lifted the lid on the country’s WASP establishment, detailed some of its worthy, enduring values, notably grace, discipline, and civic mindedness. It’s anti-Trump, and at odds with the way society has been trending for the four decades since it was published.

“It’s very hard to lead a nice, respectable, polite life. Everything in our culture heralds a public, naughty, aggressive life,” Birnbach said in a 2010 interview. “And I’m just another person trying to find her own way through it, and little moments of civility and deliciousness in a world that’s gone terribly awry, vulgar and gross. Oh, here’s one: FCUK — French Connection UK. Thanks for nothing. Who needs that? It’s all so crass. Paris Hilton and little arm-candy dogs and big, fake boobs and reality TV.”

Guess what? Paris—who was always far savvier than the character she played—has kinda got a little demure. There’s hope for everyone.

A note about whatever this is …

After writing a few thousand articles for newspapers and magazines, I spent a long time trying a bunch of other stuff. I guess I figured what came (relatively) easily must by definition be less valuable, so I wandered in the corporate wilderness, becoming increasingly frustrated and doing work that felt increasingly lousy.

Sometimes with age comes wisdom, and I’ve realized finding something (relatively) easy ain’t a bad thing. So, this is a space where I’m resurrecting writing for myself, on topics weird and wild and wonderful, all from the perspective of an Australian living in the United States.

Posts will appear when the mood takes me, but I do try to be consistently inconsistent—sometimes it’ll be a couple of days between drinks; sometimes a week. But if you subscribe, you’ll get a email letting you know I’m ranting. Again.

1. Two points. I’m not sure any of them are truly wealthy, at least in the sense of being able to spend money and not really think about it. And, second, they seem to operate on the theory that wearing something emblazoned a honking designer name—Balenciaga! Christian Dior!—will by default look good. It doesn’t.