I found this to be resonant. Though I'm currently avoiding the lifestyle described, the imitation of some imagined norm is not easily escaped. When I find what I think is authenticity, it seems to be hidden in the surface of the imitation, not in some radical deviation from it (which ends up being imitation, newly covered).

So that was us last night: a bunch of strangers drinking lychee martinis out of glasses from Zellers, figuring out how to make a few extra bucks on the side, not flirting. It's an act and we all know it, a sort of by-the-book yuppiedom. We're imitating something, some rite of the upper crust, but what exactly we're imitating remains unclear. We swirl our swizzles and lift telltale pinkies off the glass, by habit, as if we do it all the time. At breakfast, even. But who are we pretending to be? Surely even the highest of high society with martini glasses in hand are just pretending, too.