Or, “The View from February”
It recently occurred to me that I’ve been making respectable progress with my New Year’s Resolution and I haven’t even mentioned it on this blog yet. Most of my loyal readers (assuming there are any) know that earth-shaking resolutions aren’t my style. I don’t want to look back on January from the vantage point of my birthday and think “Man, I was going to lose five pounds, but then I learned how easy it was to make chocolate chip cookie dough with Bisquick.” (So easy, by the way).
I tend to make resolutions that are easily achievable—“Go outside at midnight” to combat my fear of the dark or “Have another baby” the year I was pregnant with Bear—or that reflect who I am on the most fundamental level. This year is a prime example of the latter. My New Year’s Resolution for 2012 was to use the phrase “classy as balls” more often.
What does that mean?
Literally, it means as stylish or sophisticated as a pair of human testicles.
No, what does it mean?
It means that part of me is a twenty-two-year-old male who is exactly as cocky as he sounds.
That actually explains a lot, if you’re my husband. Why I love the song Keasbey Nights by Streetlight Manifesto so much. Why every time a jacked-up truck with mud tires and no muffler rumbles by my heart goes crazy. Why I like Arrogant Bastard Ale and why on rare, wonderful mornings I eat barbecued hot dogs for breakfast.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that the twenty-something guy inside of me is also a serious white trash hick. Again, lucky for me. I’m faithful to the death to Ford. I just got a tat on the back of my right hand that will tell you everything you need to know about my beliefs. I say “worsh” and mean it. And the next time my husband starts to make fun of me for owning my cricker heritage, I’m going to point out that he chose to get a tattoo of a cross on his side. There is nothing more white trash, balls-classy* than that—except maybe growing up in Arkansas.
That got off-track fast. The point I was making at the beginning of this post is how well I’m doing on my New Year’s Resolution. The rules clearly state that I must use the phrase “classy as balls” in regular, everyday conversation in a way that is both relevant and natural. That means it can’t be forced and that my writing doesn’t count toward usage. So far I’ve said “classy as balls” seven times in as many weeks. I feel like I’m making progress. The going is slow, but by the end of the year, I hope to have used it at least 100 times.
To keep myself accountable, I’ll regularly update my readers on the running tally with a “CAB Count.” (By “regularly” I mean “whenever I write another post” which could be any time, really, and probably won’t be on any regular schedule.) And, of course, at the end of the year, I’ll be throwing a Classy As Balls Party, which will be everything it implies. I hope to see you there to celebrate my victory over sophistication.
*Permutations of the phrase “classy as balls” are acceptable if used in conversation and count toward the running score which is being kept officially on my whiteboard at home.