A Class Act

Occasionally, I allow myself a couple of minutes of self-reflection. If I reflect too much, I usually end up blowing the dust off my fitness club card and vowing to read a classic novel by the end of the month or other such self improvement nonsense. So I try to avoid it when I can. But a few nights ago, a haunting question came to my mind- am I white trash? The quick answer seems to be no. I mean, I wear sweaters like all the time. I speak moderate Spanish, and I have a Kindle, people. That is a trifecta of classiness. But when I initially asked myself the question, I had just polished off a pack of Frosted Strawberry Pop Tarts and some string cheese. In bed. Again. This particular instance of reclined gorging was to celebrate the It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia mini-marathon that I was having at the time. The final episode I saw really got me thinking. Its title? "Mac and Charlie: White Trash." If that's not a wake up call, I don't know what is. The plot was thick with hilarity, shenanigans, and class warfare. But I'm not a television critic. If you want to watch it, be my guest. Otherwise, I could seriously care less. So at the culmination of this episode, I decided to take stock of my trash. First and foremost, there was the literal trash evidenced in the halo of food wrappers around my head. That needed to be dealt with pretty much immediately. Trash 1, Class 0. Once the debris was cleared, I began some serious thinking. My driving habits. Now, before all the cyber world, I will admit that I am an aggressive driver. Notice how I did not say bad. Aggressive. When the situation calls for it, that's just fine. But as much as I'd like to, I don't live New York or Boston or Philly or DC. I live in Kingsport, Tennessee. And the situation in Kingsport never, ever calls for the kind of lane weaving, neck craning, tailgating prowess that I have. In a town where Wal-Mart is the nexus of the social universe, it's just embarrassing. And rednecky. Oh yeah, and I drive an old pickup truck. Trash 3, Class 0. I go barefoot in the summer as much as possible. I shop at Wal-Mart. Basically every day. (Don't judge me; it's really close to my house.) I used to eat pie with my hands, because I thought it was OK to do. Sometimes I just want to shout "YEE HAW" for no reason. I vacation near Myrtle Beach. I watch The Jersey Shore every so often. I'm loud, Southern, and willing to make a fool of myself when pressured to do so. And the tide of garbage continues to rise. I'm not saying that I have a brood of illegitimate children crawling all over me while I write this blog. And you'll probably never see me drinking Natty Light out of a paper bag in a cutoff flannel shirt, but sometimes my gut just tells me to fry up a sandwich and take it to bed for a nice Law and Order marathon at 2 in the afternoon. I should know better. When the commercials are all title loans and class action lawsuits, it's time to turn off the TV. I don't want to dispose of all my fun quirks. A little grit has its place in everyone's personality, and I'm proud of my...uhm....down-to-Earth-ness... But I also realize that I must tame the trashy beast that clearly lurks inside my classy shell. My New Year's Resolution? Take out the trash.