I play hide-and-seek in my penthouse apartment with my four-year-old twins, Whisper and Gem, all three of us clad in bespoke knit loungewear.
I wear my new Alaïa bandage dress to the opening of the latest Marina Abramović performance art piece at MoMA (The Artist Is Silent). The dress is a nod to the performance, in which Abramović stands in the middle of the room wearing a gag while members of the public tiptoe around her.
I own a silk Dior bathrobe exclusively for wafting silently from room to room when I’m home alone.
I celebrate the life of my best friend’s recently departed Pekingese, who was run over by a Rolls-Royce. I am dressed in black Chanel from head to toe out of respect for Monsieur Le Floof.
I arrive at my silent retreat at a Cistercian monastery in the Hamptons carrying my Louis Vuitton yoga mat. I prepared for the occasion by getting Botox shots in my armpits to ensure that the sound of dripping sweat will not disturb me during scorpion pose.
My butler is contractually obligated to say everything sotto voce.
I take a therapist-mandated time-out, during which I must remove my Manolo Blahnik stiletto heels, sit in the corner of my therapist’s office (facing the wall), and remain silent for fifty-five minutes. Dr. Kvěch is one of the leading proponents of Laconism, a school of psychiatry based on the belief that the best way to treat mental illness is not to speak about it.
I wear my Versace leather jumpsuit at an invitation-only silent rave in a converted warehouse formerly used by a ring of Pekingese smugglers.
I have a Bottega Veneta toiletry kit full of calming hangover remedies. When indulging in a hair of the dog, I muffle the pop of the Cristal cork with my Prada virgin wool earmuffs.
I hold in a fart in the ground-floor bathroom of the St. Regis New York.
I bring a suitcase stuffed with Armani cashmere scarves to my lover’s apartment in the Meatpacking District. I do this so I can scatter them on the floor and sneak out without waking him the next morning. That’s how much I care about his work as a DJ.
Now that I’ve created a foundation dedicated to rehabilitating smuggled Pekingese dogs, I always take care to wear my Valentino wrap coat for the charity headquarters’ annual active-shooter drill.
I read the September issue of Vogue in a private room at the Morgan Library.
When my DJ lover dumps me at my charity headquarters, I don’t make a scene. Like the traumatized Pekingese dogs I’m so eager to help, I save my screaming and sobbing for the soundproofed space our charity likes to call the “Feelings Room.”
During my voluntary stay at the Park Avenue Psychiatric Hospital for the Posh, I am confined to a leather-padded cell, wearing a vintage, studded straitjacket designed by Karl Lagerfeld.
I never talk about money. Only poor people do that.
