None of these words apply to me.
I am just a small-town boy with a touch of autism, who has managed to read enough to know how the other half 95% lives, and how they expect me to act and behave. If the wife hadn’t decided that I needed someone to civilize me, I probably wouldn’t be married.
I have managed to dine at a few somewhat upscale restaurants without embarrassing myself or my companions too badly, but I should not be let loose near anything labeled fête or gala. I can’t even tell the difference between white ties and black ties, much less how to wear them, when, and where.
For a couple of years in high school I wore a string-, or bolo-tie to the few dances and parties that I attended – and didn’t wonder why the females wanted nothing to do with me. In the first half of my working life, when I was a number of varieties of cube-drone, I wore clip-on ties.
One day, I stopped for a cooling beverage (or several) after work, at a place artistically nicknamed The Pit, which just happened to have entertainment which involved the removing of clothing. I got a seat right up front – ‘cuz my eyes were weak. One of the sluts strippers Exotic Dancers decided that she wanted to drag me up on the stage. She grabbed my tie and pulled. She ended up with it in one hand, and a bemused look on her face. Of course, I had to burn the tie, by the time she was done with it.
My idea of “sophistication” is to order bottled beer that is opened at my table, rather than take my chances of being roofied by on-tap lager. Don’t get me started about cocktails, or even ‘mixed drinks.’ If it’s any more complex than rye and cola, it’s outside my wheelhouse.
I’ve long since given up the bolo ties but, despite their connotation and connection to County-Western Music – which I abhor – I continue to wear, what other people call ‘Cowboy boots’, through almost 53 years of marriage. What I wear is not what others might refer to as ‘Biker boots’ either, although they served to protect my lower legs for 25 years, when I rode an assortment of rice-burner motorcycles.
It’s too bad I wasn’t born rich, instead of so God-damned handsome. Maybe one of the Hilton or Astor families might have polished me a little bit. More likely, I’d have just wound up like Billy Carter, the embarrassment to President Jimmy Carter. We could have had a few beers together, only…. Despite endorsing Billy Beer, in private, he drank Pabst.
Stop back in a couple of days, and I’ll have another story about old guys sitting around, drinking beer, and taking over the world. I’ll lay in some local, micro-brew dark ale that we can share. 😀