A Touch of Class

Last weekend, Habibi went out of town to spend a few days with a good friend.  Like any good wife, I was excited for him to have some quality time with a friend...but I also couldn't wait for some precious "me time."

Of course, I always miss Habibi when one of us is out of town without the other for an extended period of time but, the older I get, the more I come to cherish the time spent with my own best friend:  me.  Don't get me wrong; just because the mantra for going out has become Do I have to wear pants?  Then I'm not interested. doesn't mean I'm a recluse or anything.  Throughout my childhood and adolescence I was, in fact, quite extroverted.  However, once I entered adulthood, things began to change.  Gradually, I began to discover the joy that comes with (a certain amount of) solitude and how refreshing and re-energizing that can be.

Plus, shucking your jeans at the door and running around your home in your jammies is spectacular.

Anyway, after kissing Habibi good bye and insisting that he call me when he arrived at his destination, I skipped off to prepare myself for a night of refined indulgence and began to consider the prospect of dinner.  Fifteen minutes later, after I had ravaged every last morsel in the fridge, I decided to watch something intellectually stimulating.  While I sat (slouched), balancing a bowl of popcorn on my belly in front of an episode of I Love New York on Hulu, Betty sent me a knowing glance from her new cat tower as if to say, You call that "me time"?  Woman, please.  This is what I do every day!  You see, my definition of "me time" is not Oh great!  Now that I'm alone I can get everything done on my to-do list!  Heavens no!  "Me time" is when you get to sit around in your underwear and lick the last of the frosting off your plate without the fear of being judged by others.

Despite the fact that I had already set the bar quite high, I figured that I should do something with a little bit more class for my second night of flying solo.  So, I picked up season one of Downton Abbey from Redbox (I figured I might as well jump on the latest bandwagon and enjoy the ride!) and got a salad from HyVee.  After about five hours of unquestionable dignity and elegance, I asked myself Well, where in the sam hell is my maid?  And how come my telegrams (a.k.a. junk mail from Chase Visa) are never brought to me on a silver tray?  As I brushed the cookie crumbs from my eyebrows and belched, it suddenly occurred to me:  No matter how much PBS I watch, French I speak, or rules of cricket I pretend to understand, I am simply one of the "downstairs" people.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But how can this be, Anouchka? you ask.  You are the embodiment of nobility and class!

I know.  But someone had to load the coals in the bowels of the Titanic.

Or was it wood?

Or maybe something to do with steam?

I don't know.

But either way, it was probably me.  And since I don't know if it was coal, wood or some other burnable material, it was probably my fault that the damn thing sank too.

In all seriousness though, do you know anyone who would like to chauffeur me around?  Or perhaps be my valet or butler?  I do so envy the characters on the show who look down on people who have to have "jobs" and "weekends."  In fact, the Crawley family and New York seem to have that in common.

Note the similarities:

The Crawley Family, Downton Abbey

The cast of I Love New York

I mean, how different can it be?  They all live in mansions and have lovely leading ladies:

Lady Mary Crawley

New York

And who can forget those steamy, hot romances?

Lady Mary Crawley and Matthew Crawley

New York and one of her many "suitors"

So, I guess there really aren't that many differences between the upstairs and the downstairs people after all, are there?

I guess that means there's hope for me.