Class warfare

Many, many years ago, a classmate of mine at seminary told another friend that "Elizabeth has more class in her little finger than most of the rest of us."

I'm not recalling this moment as a compliment to myself.  At the time, I would have given up all of the supposed virtue I had to be blonde, winsome and a hot item among the Presbyterian menfolk.  Class meant nothing to me. Popularity did.

Now that I've had a few years to think about this, however -- I find that class counts. Class matters.

 Not in the sense that politicians use the word.  I find that particularly aggravating. But I don't like slogans, period.

Take the notion of "class warfare," for instance.  I could take you seriously if you were talking about France and the Jacobins or about 1918 Russia, but America in 2012?

Who are these fellows afraid of?

(I do believe that where you are on the socioeconomic ladder makes a difference -- that's a whole other post.)

In an individual, class is an attitude. Class is the company you keep -- and that which you choose not to.

Recently, I've realized that some of the company I've kept has brought me down.

Knowing when to stand up for yourself, and when to walk away is a tricky business, isn't it?

I'm not at all sure I've got that one down.

I'm horrible at catfights.  Unless I get really, really mad. And even then, there are better things to do.

If there's still an ember glowing among the ashes of the woman that my classmates glimpsed back in the day, she's the one I want to nurture.

Only this time, with a little confidence, sass, and compassion.

Class warfare. Who needs it?

Let them eat chocolate. In fact, I'm buying.