My Classy Self

I’m often incredibly classy.  I would say my mannerisms parallel the Queen.  When I shot gun beers, I always ensure I’m outside to avoid spillage. 

When I eat lobster, I always wear a bib and hold my mallet the proper way, clutched in my right hand of course. 

When I sneak booze into a concert, it’s always the classiest of drinks (red wine), with the bladder from the box duct taped around my stomach, under my clothes.

 When I fancy crab legs, I clearly hit up the classiest Chinese buffet with $10.99 in my pocket.

And when I go on first dates, sometimes I get completely shitfaced... in very classy ways.

I decided to pregame this date in one said classy way, with red wine.  After all, the date was at 8pm, and if it was anything like The Leather Jacket, I needed a classy head start.  And what better way than with wine?

Wine after all comes from very classy places.  I often envision myself in such places when I’m drinking wine – Napa, France, Italy, my college dorm room, under a bridge.  And wine has very classy nomenclature - Montrachet, Chateau Lafite, Royal DeMaria, Franzia, Carlo Rossi. 

Wine is also served in very classy containers – decanters, carafes, stemless glassware, crystal, boxes, jugs, coffee mugs.  So you see, this classy evening with my classy self was entirely dependent on a good old-fashioned classy pregame.

I went out with The Crucifix (reason for the name to follow) on Valentine’s Day.  I didn’t realize when I suggested the day.  In fact, he even brought it up, and I forgot again when I suggested that day… again.  Which is so weird, as I always pay so much attention to such holidays chasing after my classy little heart.  Especially when I’m date planning via text during my classiest of activities – drinking red wine.

We met a bar with a live band… I was a little buzzed when I walked in, and decided the classiest thing I could do was order an IPA – because what else says “let’s keep this party of 1 going” like a 9% alcohol content beer.   At least when I knocked over the second IPA at that bar, the glass was empty – a true testament to my sheer classiness – never a wounded soldier.

I don’t know if it was the sheer alcohol consumption, but I was slightly digging The Crucifix that night.  We surprisingly had a lot in common:

1.     We were both raised Catholic

2.     I suspected he had also pregamed this date – CLASSY!

3.     He chose the most classiest of clothing choices: A jewel-toned argyle sweater.  That can only be beat by a knee length leather jacket, and been there/done that.

4.     And we had both been arrested in college.  Now you might say, “Whoa, Vamosa – Arrested? Déclassé!”  But, au contraire, mon amie.  While my 18-yr old self was being bear tackled in the bushes outside my dorm and handcuffed, I could only think one thing: My extreme classiness chose specifically to risk my personal freedom by walking home following a night of keg stands and not driving, where I would endanger other people.  What’s classier than that kind of philanthropy and sacrifice? Rien, I say.  Rien.

We went to a handful of other bars, and at this point in a night of extreme drinking, the classiest thing one can do is switch to vodka, of course.  Before I knew it, my classy self was sucking his face off in that bar.  Just two little Catholics, exchanging spit.  Now that’s classy.

Around midnight, after about 6 vodka sodas (again, claaasssy), I realized I was just a little too shitfaced to stay awake much longer, and god damn it, I wanted pizza.  I stumbled to the corner, and The Crucifix and I said goodbye with plans for another date, and he hailed me a cab.  I fell into it, and like any classy lady would do, began to regale the cab driver about how delicious pizza is, and how I was going to eat pizza all night.  He seemed enchanted, but again, who wouldn’t be?  Classy girls know how to captivate an audience.  

I woke up the next morning with my head at the foot of my bed, my shoes still on, and a frozen pizza out of the box and laying on the floor.  Another testament to my classiness.  Now I know myself, and I didn’t make that pizza because I couldn’t be sure I’d remember to turn the oven off.  My apartment building should thank me.

I went out with The Crucifix a few more times, and it just fizzled.  I’ll admit, I was genuinely weirded out when I saw the Crucifix he had hanging up in his room.  I mean, I’m not that Catholic.  But the real kicker was The Crucifix was looking for a mate to take to church, and I am simply afraid I’ll burst into flames stepping back into St. Whatever some day.  Now that would be déclassé.  This realization hit the last time we saw each other, on Fat Tuesday, and he was a little too excited for Ash Wednesday mass and Lent.  It was time to say goodbye to The Crucifix. 

And after all, I had given up my own Catholicism for Lent, and I really didn’t want to break that commitment.  If Jesus can spend 40 days and 40 nights in a desert without food OR water, the least I could do to mimic this great sacrifice is keep my commitment to eating meat on Fridays and avoiding church.  It’s not very classy to break your commitments.  But that’s just what makes me so utterly… classy.