There was a time — before stirrup leggings and karaoke, before cheap beer in a can could be considered a meal and before cheap beer on the floor could be considered a cleaning agent, before there was such a thing as jeggings and when wine came only in a bottle — when it was good to be classy. Men asked women out on dates. These men brought women roses tied with a satin ribbon, and they bid the women farewell with a pat on the hair, which was required by law to be shaped like a cinnamon bun.
Those days are over. The notion of class has reached its expiration date to the sound of Wagner and the smell of fish oil, and we should let it go on its boring way. The days of class had chaperones, Prohibition and way too many undergarments. However, one thing from our classier fore-partiers that we should not forget is laudanum. Laudanum is pure grain alcohol mixed with opium. They should sell laudanum at every corner gas station in the world.
Even the neo-classy ideal promotes sobriety, boring and ugly shoes fashioned from natural materials with reinforced arches, and elected officials that look like they are already dead.
This situation needs more of the Situation and all his slobbery friends. All the pursuit of class ever earned anyone was a Girl Scout button in buzzkilling and a rebuke from anyone you ever tried to have cyber sex with because “”you’re hot, baby, but my grandma’s photos have more cleavage than yours do.””
There would be less stress, sadness and supportive hosiery and more fun, brightness and release of delicious endorphins if we, as a society, gave up our pursuit of class. We ought to hike up our acid-wash leggings that will henceforth pass as pants and raise our red cups of Natural Light. Go forth, loose women and bawdy men, into an age of acceptance for those who think, dress and drink out of the wine box.
In a world where cardigans are replaced with cheetah-print vests, a capella groups are replaces with Whitesnake tribute bands, and anyone wearing shoes with tassels must automatically remove said footwear and get a mullet, every aspect of life would be improved. Though it is certainly possible to look cheap with a lot of money, the flashier look is much easier to maintain on smaller budget. If the entertainment industry simply embraced its tackiness instead of trying to cover it with 12 simultaneous plastic surgeries, we would all have more fun with less money, probably in 3-D. Nothing says progress like “”Hoboken Mall Cop Chihuahua”” (coming soon to a theatre near you).
The flaming cocktail of moxie, chutzpah and Everclear required to pursue tacky over classy is exactly what society needs. Tact is lying for grown-ups, but tack is honest: there are no secrets in turquoise leggings. Being tacky is having the guts to say, “”This is what I look like without Spanx,”” “”This is the wine I can afford, and hey, I kind of like it,”” or “”These are the clothes I like, and yes, they are polyester.””
The Situation may not have the pompous circumstance as the self-crowned, self-pleasuring “”elites”” and the Ivy institution he shares Jersey with, but he knows what he is: a rock-hard six pack and a pair of bedazzled swim trunks. He’s OK with that; he’s making millions off it. And we should be too.
— Anna Swenson is a junior majoring in English. She also writes for The Desert Lamp. She can be reached at letters@wildcat.arizona.edu.
