One classy lady.

“Money can’t buy you class.” – Ex Countess a.k.a. New York Housewife #3.
If money can’t, what can? Anything? Is it inherited? Does it swim in the gene pool? Does it twirl around in the DNA? Can it be learned? Will universities ever begin offering a Bachelor of Arts with a major in Class? Can you get an internship learning Classy skills? Will it come as an inspiration if an apple falls on your head?

Did you ever hear “I want to be a classy lady when I grow up”? I think I have. Well, I certainly have said it to myself once or twice. Not out loud of course. That would be weird.

Is it a career? Is it a lifestyle? Is it a personality?

What is having class? What does it mean anyway? Is it saying please and thank you? Is it learning to speak beautifully? Is it having cucumber sandwiches with afternoon tea? Is it folding your legs in a way that makes you look like you’re about to fall of the chair?

I learn to be poised. I keep my composure. Patience certainly helps. Speaking in a low voice forces people to lean over and listen.

Is it the way you glance, not in vain and not with a superior attitude? Is it the angle at which your chin peacefully sustains its posture as you listen to someone else speak?

Or is it the way you bring your index finger to neatly caress your brow as you think of the fastest way to seduce your male target? The way you nonchalantly wipe away the strawberry jam as it smudges on your poka dot dress? Perhaps it is the way you drool in front of the Tiffany's window display? Is it the way you silently measure the confidence or lack of the person interrupting you? Is it when you let someone get on the train first, even though you have the full right of way?

These are all kinds of my classy. Let’s go get some tea and scones, and may be a hat or two. Let's stop smoking!