Op-Ed Columns

It all started with a purse.

My wife's purse.

Which, she complained, wasn't what she wanted.

And I, ever sensitive to my wife's desires, asked, "what would you like your purse to be?"

"Bigger," she replied.

And before I could point out that the one she had would hold a table saw, she added, "with lots of pockets."

Then, "and cute."

And under my breath I whispered, "thank you, Lord."

You see, her birthday was coming up, and until that moment I didn't have a clue what to get her. Now I knew. A purse — big, with pockets, and cute.

The next day, proud of myself, I told one of the ladies in my office how that very afternoon I was going to Wal-Mart to pick it out.

"No, you aren't."

Soon, as if by magic, other women arrived to save me from myself. Onto the Internet they went, where they found what I should order and from where I should order it. And I, being a man of good sense, took their advice.

My wife got the purse she wanted.

And I got put on the mailing list of an upscale fashion company.

Which is my point.

Upscale companies no longer send out catalogs — they send out magazines, which contain all sorts for things for the sort of person who would order from them in the first place. So now, quarterly, I receive information on Montana getaways, creative gift-giving, how to set up a junior book club, plus recipes, crafts, and such, interspersed with tips on how to buy stuff that will go with the purse I bought for my sweetheart.

Though the magazine comes addressed to me, I give it to her.

The other day, she gave it back.

"Look," she said, "here is something you can use in your research."

What she pointed out was an article all about a place that the folks who run the upscale fashion company had bought down on the Gulf Coast, right slap-dab in the middle of what was once the Redneck Riviera and what is rapidly becoming something else because the owners of upscale fashion companies are moving in.

The article was all about how the company was trying to "reconnect with a simpler time," a time which, ironically and coincidently, has long since been shot to hell by the arrival of companies such as this.

As if to confirm the transformation, at the end of the article the upscale company offered upscale ladies some suggestions on "what to pack" for a "weekend getaway" at the beach, a list that seemed to me clear evidence of the retreat of redneck coastal culture in the face of fashion and fad. I offer to you their list, with my own suggestions for those who want to turn back the tide and return the coast to a time when things were really simpler.

Here goes.

The upscale company suggests that every lady at the beach should have a "Tunic" and recommends getting one from toryburch.com, where I found some nice ones on sale for just under $200.

I, on the other hand, believe every beach lady should take a bunch of T-shirts, preferably embossed with sentiments such as "I love box wine" or "If you are what you eat then I am fast, easy and cheap." Or Bible verses — church camp shirts provide a nice counterpoint when she sits on the sand and sips a cold one. Nothing a Southern lady loves more than sending a mixed message.

They suggest Rubber Thongs (shoes, not the bathing suit) and recommend Havaianas.

I suggest flip-flops and recommend Wal-Mart or Old Navy.

They: Soft straw hat, preferably Peruvian.

Me: Cap or visor, preferably cheap.

They: Tankini from speedousa.com.

Me: I have nothing against tankinis, which I see as sort of a halfway house between bikinis and Muumuus. The point is to be comfortable, and if a lady feels better wearing what the upscale fashion company describes as the "most forgiving two-piece silhouette on the planet," go for it. Just remember, enough trips to the cooler and no one will give a rip.

They: Polo Shirt: Recommend Ralph Lauren.

Me: T-shirts (see above).

They: Shorts. Recommend Vince from Bloomingdales.

Me: Shorts. Target.

They: Cotton shift dress from Lilly Pulitzer.

Me: Shorts and T-shirts.

They: Espadrilles.

Me: Flip-flops.

They: Sunglasses by Estelle.

Me: Sunglasses from Quickmart.

They: Capris from St. John Sport at Saks Fifth Avenue.

Me: Shorts.

They: White shirt, three-quarter sleeves from J. Crew.

Me: T-shirt.

They: Wrap from Sophie Scarf.

Me: Towel from Alvin's Island.

All theirs can be neatly packed into an $85 "Super Tote" that the company will be happy to sell you.

All of mine can be crammed into a plastic bag from Winn-Dixie.

And as I sat there thinking how, through my list, I had struck a blow against the upscale and uptight that are taking the redneck out of the Riviera, my daughter, my 10-year-old beach bunny, announced that she was saving her money to buy a purse — just like her mother's.

Help.