We’re not as classy as we thought. That’s the moral. But what about the story?
We won free tickets to see the local symphony orchestra. Good seats, too. Center aisle. Not too close that we’d need earplugs, but not so far that we’d have to strain, either. It was winter (which in Phoenix is like fall everywhere else). Sixty degrees. Maybe. Which, for us, was the perfect excuse for a sophisticated night on the town — whatever that meant. Amy put on a cute dress and high heels, draped herself in a long overcoat (again, we don’t get many chances to wear our coats, or what the rest of the country calls “a light jacket”), and held her small, sparkly clutch. Jordan buttoned his shirt, fastened his festive tie, threw on his peacoat to protect him from those 60-degree gusts of Arizona in late November, and we walked out of the house — together.
Up until that point in our life, we always thought we were classy, a younger version of Captain von Trapp and Maria, a less talented version of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, a less political version of Jackie and JFK, or a poorer version of William and Kate. We thought we were classy. So we decided to do what classy people do: support the local arts, golf clap after each musical set, and have an appreciation for timeless truths that’ve been lost on this generation. The truth is, that wasn’t us, no matter how bad we wanted it to be, and when we arrived in the theater, we found out that it wasn’t our fault. We found out why.
We were the youngest people there. By about 50 years.
We found our seats. The room was much warmer than we’d expected. We took off our coats, crossed our legs (like classy people), and started thumbing through the program waiting for the performance to begin. So far, so good. We were doing classy in style.
And then the lights dimmed and the performance began.
Now, that act, in and of itself, doesn’t mean we’re not classy, right? We still could’ve retained some classy dignity had we “called it a night” and “retired to home” while telling everyone that we had a “lovely” time. But we didn’t. Partly because we have sweet teeth (plural) that won’t stop calling our names sometimes. And partly because, as we found out, we’re just not classy as we wish we could be. Instead, we went to McDonald’s. McDonald’s! We traded a night among Phoenix’s elite for a drive-thru run with Ronald McDonald, the drive-thru attendant on his headset (who was very nice, by the way), and two Oreo McFlurries.
Ah, but we learned an important lesson that night: we might never be William and Kate, but they can’t be us, either. They can’t walk out of a room when they’re bored, because that wouldn’t be classy (and they are)… which means they surely don’t get to leave a black-tie affair to hit the drive-thru, devour McFlurries and spend the rest of the night cuddled up on the couch watching Netflix in their sweatpants. And we wouldn’t trade that for anything!
Want to catch up on The Pink Slip Files? You can read them all right here:
Intro: What Are the Pink Slip Files?
No. 1: Failing Pre-Marital Class & Otter DNA
No. 2: Sink or Swim
No. 3: Turning Off the Lights
No. 4: Leave a Message at the Tone
No. 5: Chocolates, Mystery Shows & Honeymooning
No. 6: Cutting Coupons & Wal-Mart Jeans
No. 7: Paper Chains of Memories
No. 8: Dancing on Bar Tops
No. 9: Man’s Best (Feline) Friend
No. 10: Confessions of a Waffle Fry
No. 11: What’s So Important About Shoelaces?
No. 12: Breaking Records… Like It’s 1924
No. 13: Why We’re Not as Classy as We Thought
No. 14: A Letter to My Only Starbucks Lover
No. 15: The Night We Killed Someone (Kind Of)
No. 16: Lord, It’s a Fire!
No. 17: 6 Words We Never Thought We’d Google
No. 18: How Jordan Convinced Amy… To Take Her Clothes Off. Every Time We Walk in the Door
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