Monday, November 28, 2011

Classy is my middle name

There is, in my town, a gated community.  A very nice gated community. With guards, and "estates."  It holds the type of houses where I imagine that people dress for dinner.  The kind of places where the pool house out back is bigger than my first apartment.  The kind of neighborhood where the Gilmore's would live (Richard and Emily obviously...Lorelai wouldn't be caught dead there) It's one of those neighborhoods that get made fun of for being snotty and stuck up (and let's be of it probably are).

But I have friends that live in the (still very nice) but un-snotty part of the neighborhood.  And when I visit them, as I often do, I am usually conscious of the bevy of (very nice) cars going by me in the residents lane while I idle in the visitors lane waiting for another lawn-care truck to get waved through by the guard of the hour.

And often as I sit, I become aware of the fact that my car is old, and dirty, and has a pile of discarded Starbucks cups and empty diet coke cans on the floor of the backseat. And I wonder if the guard is secretly judging me for not living up to the Gated Community standards.

Still I don't spend a lot of time worrying about it (time that could be better used playing reruns of  the Gilmore Girls in my head).  And, since I'm generally such a classy person, I feel fairly certain that I belong in that particular neighborhood (or at least my friends house).

But then on Friday, I pulled up to the gate around 8:00pm to let the dog out and check the mail, already in my pajamas (sans bra), missing one hubcap, with a piece of pie on a paper plate on the passenger seat and a Styrofoam cup full of cool whip in the cup holder I thought..."way to keep it classy Keener"

And also,  this place may be a bit out of my league (I'm way more Lorelai than Emily anyway)

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