I’ve no business talking about how to be classy. I mean none. There is hardly enough paper in the forest to contain the list of dastardly deeds I’ve bestowed upon my opposite gender. Having a decent heart despite acting reprehensible allows you to learn from your mistakes and throughout the years I’ve managed to rectify certain transgressions and hopefully have evolved into a better human and more importantly, a better man.
Class is more than tucking in your shirt or knowing whether a Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Gris goes best with a chunk of Camembert.
Class is knowing when to listen, when to inform, when to interrupt, and when to shut up.
It’s understanding the reciprocity of relationships, the give and take of what’s both abhorred and coveted. If she cooks you dinner, you do the dishes. If she drives, you spring for the gas. If she puts on a dress and swanky shoes, you better iron a shirt and shine your shoes. At the very least.
This li’l tirade stems from seeing far too many women who have obviously gone to extraordinary measures to prepare themselves for a night out on the town only to be escorted by men who appear to have no interest in even trying to be half-way spruced. Cargo shorts and sneakers walking next to heels and a dress topped with hair done to the nines drives this little boy to tears.
Maybe it’s because this little boy isn’t going out on the town with a filly or that he just doesn’t realize that women are mysteriously copacetic with being tight and immaculate while the men they accompany remain unkempt and indifferent.