FANCY PEOPLE, BUT NOT TOO FANCY

My wife and I are not fancy people, but one of us is more than the other.

As it should be, as long as it’s not me.

I’ve seen fancy and come away with the same feelings each time:

No Thanks.

Have you ever seen a fancy jean jacket?

I had one so fancy it wasn’t even made of denim. It was corduroy.

Very cool.

A buddy asked if they could wear it on a date. Sure.

They brought it back all wadded up and crusty.

Me: What happened to my jacket.

Dude: Well, we parked and didn’t have a blanket, so . . .

Me: You did it on my jacket?

Dude: It’ll wash out.

Me: No, it won’t.

It was a fancy jean jacket, so fancy it was made of corduroy, which is apparently very absorbent during a picnic.

I never wore it again.

After that I could never wear it without the echo of, ‘it’ll wash out.’

 

I went to the mall with my wife, something I have a hard time doing, but I do it.

We were in Nordstrom’s with no hyperventilating, something I’m famous for because of one time.

My wife thought I was having a panic attack in the downtown Nordstrom’s on Broadway.

Wife: Look, I get it. People get overwhelmed.

Me: The perfume lady squirted at me. I’m allergic, not overwhelmed.

For whatever reason, she likes shopping for me.

This time she found a $300 dollar bathrobe.

It was nice. I’m not here saying it wasn’t nice, but $300 nice? No.

A week later I’m shopping the local Good Will and find a similar bathrobe with “Groom” embroidered over the front pocket.

$7.50.

I bought it, washed it, and the next morning strolled around.

Wife: You went back to Nordstroms for the robe.

Me: More or less.

Wife: It looks good. I don’t remember it feeling this good.

Me: Feels like $300?

Wife: Yes, absolutely.

Me: Or $7.50 from Good Will.

I showed her the pocket with ‘Groom.’

Wife: Is this the best feeling bathrobe?

Me: Every bathrobe feels good when I wear it.

Wife: Yes it does.

 

A Fancy People Problem

You know when you’re in the presence of fancy by a stunning display of good manners.

More than the usual please and thank you the rest of us get by on, Fancy makes a point of raising the stakes.

They thank you, but then go into why they’re thanking you. They understand your motivations, your effort, your skill, your mother, your father, and bless them all.

A thank you works, too. But if you’ve been to camps and schools and finishing schools, why not show it?

I watched and listened to a grown man do it.

Man: Thank you ever so much for coming out and joining our celebration.

Man2: Sure, I wasn’t doing anything else.

Man: When we all make the sort of effort you did we build a community we can all be thankful for.

Man2: I was heading this direction anyway.

Man: Every time someone makes time in their day for someone else is a beautiful thing.

Man2: I’m your neighbor and you’ve been talking about this all year.

Man: It’s a grand gesture of kindness and thoughtfulness.

Man2: Is there beer?

 

Good Manners vs Great Manners 

I met an older couple when I was young and single and in the Army.

The man was a retired colonel.

They had friends with daughters my age and thought of themselves as match makers.

Over a summer of dinners on the Main Line of Philadelphia I met their friends’ and neighbors’ daughters.

It started with classes with the wife on what to expect, which felt a little like Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate.

The lady of the house schooled me on appropriate topics with a hint of Katharine Hepburn.

It felt like performance art at the table with each moment timed out in preparation for the next.

The girls were graded, their reports cards turned into their mothers.

Everyone was so proud.

The girls were all around the same age with finishing schools and debutante balls and cotillions on record.

I was twenty. Would have been a sophomore in college. I had the junior prom on record.

They were raised in a community where every other house had a sign claiming George Washington slept there, a community rife with history and meaning, a community waiting for them to take their place in it.

I came from a family one generation away from a logging camp, raised in a community built on tall timber and fishing.

I was a kid who didn’t yet understand what it takes to build a community, join a community, give back to a community.

All I understood was the possibility of a bigger world.

After dinner we all said thank you and good night and the young women would drive me to the train station.

This was 1974. They were college girls out with their parents’ approval.

After dinner we’d stop for a six pack of beer, find a dark spot in the parking lot to smoke weed and drink beer.

They liked talking about the guys they dated, how they were all twenty going on forty-five, as dull and dreadful as their fathers.

I was their walk on the wild side, at least as wild as things got, which wasn’t too wild.

Their dates may have seemed like 20 going on 45, but that was the facade they held up to their parents.

When they weren’t being good boys and girls for their parents they were stepping out of the shadow of expectations.

Were they fancy people?

I like thinking there are grandmas out there who had a breath of fresh air once in their lives.

We had the windows open in the dark parking lot at the train station and breathed deeply the gathering gloom.

Girl: It’s like we all have to have sex before we can even talk to each other.

Me: No we don’t. All we have to do is listen.

Girl: But the tension makes it so hard. Sexual tension.

Me: You’re feeling it? What’s it feel like?

Girl: Like I want you to do something.

Me: Oh, look. Here’s my train.

Girl: Don’t you want my number?

Me: I had a great time. Good night.

 

And, ladies and gentlemen, this is where I learned you can’t always get what you want, and if you do, sometimes you get stuck.

The last thing I wanted was anything permanent. No signs of where I slept.

That was for fancy people.