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OMFG you guys. I just saw #serafinaedison at the airport, and she's just like y'all say she is. Classy AF. For realz!
~ Marlene, Twitter
I almost had a heart attack when I realized #serafinaedison was queueing behind me at Starbucks! I offered to let her go ahead of me, but she said no. She's so kind! So classy!
~ Ava, Twitter
Watch and learn! This is how real ladies yawn! #stayclassy #serafinaedison
~ Nancy, Instagram story
I'm on the same flight as #serafinaedison and you guys just gotta see this for yourself. No makeup. No fancy clothes. Just clear radiantly beautiful skin doing its job. Like, seriously. Do I need to sell my soul to the devil so I can say I #wokeuplikethis too?
~ Carrie, Twitter
****
There it is again.
The C-word.
Classy, I mean, and not c*nt.
I scroll through my newsfeed on every social media platform, and six out of ten posts have the C-word. Which is good, I know. I'm flattered females of all ages think I'm classy, but...
Stop right there, Raffi.
I need to be grateful about this. People thinking I'm classy is why I have a nice apartment to call home. It's why I can pay the bills and afford a vacation like this. So if people choose to think I'm classy, I just need to...
Fake it till their words become reality?
I drop my phone back in my purse in a fit of frustration and take out my squeeze ball.
Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.
Everything's such a mess these days, I just don't know what's right anymore. Like that post about me yawning. I don't think covering my mouth when yawning is classy. If I don't have my hand over my mouth when I yawn, I'll be giving the public a clear good look at my tonsils, and who in their right mind would want that?
What I think is just plain common sense, the Internet sees as classy, and...that shouldn't be a problem. Right?
No one's going to lose their job or something if people insist on seeing what they want to see and—-
"Sorry about that."
The waitress whose eye I've been trying to catch for the past fifteen minutes finally gets to my booth, and the look on her face has me biting back a sigh. Five years of being "Insta-famous" has me meeting all sorts of people, and her type, well...
"I thought you city girls need about an hour to count your calories or something."
Let's just say I'm used to them disliking me at first sight, but because I also understand where they're coming from...
"It's fine." It really is, never mind if my stomach begs to differ. I've only had oats this morning before deciding to book my flight on a whim, and that was ten hours ago. I'm definitely starving, and so I don't waste another moment as I give the waitress (Colette, according to her name pin) my order.
"One Philly cheesesteak sandwich with fries on the side. One strawberry milkshake, and one side order of cheese sticks please."
Colette stares at me. "Are you sure you're going to eat all of that?"
"Um—-"
"Because we don't like wasting food around here so—-"
I cut her off, saying politely, "I can. Thanks."
"Whatever."
She bristles and rolls her eyes as she makes a show of slashing words into her notepad. But since I have no plans of rising to the bait, Colette eventually flounces off while muttering under her breath. Some of the words sound like 'prissy' and 'stuck-up bitch', but...
I tell myself I heard her say 'pretty' and 'Netflix and chill' instead.
Because it's like I said.
I know where she's coming from. Women like Colette...they're the ones who know the truth. They take one look at me, and like recognizes like. Fine feathers don't always make fine birds, and even though I look like I'm going places...
Women like Colette never have any problem seeing right through me. They know I'm just faking it. They know I'm not classy. They know I'm nothing special, but because life is unfair and shitty that way, I got lucky with the post, and we're no longer in the same boat...just...like...that.
****
COLETTE IS STILL THE waitress from Hell when she rings the cash register for my bill, but I'd like to think I'm growing on her. When I wished her a "Merry Christmas", she could've told me to fuck off. But she didn't. She said 'whatever' instead, and I don't believe that has anything to do with the hundred-dollar bill she saw me dropping in the tip jar.
The air is dry but insanely cold when I step out of the diner, and I hear the door behind me swing open again while I'm digging in my purse for my winter gloves.
Another customer, I think right away, and I suddenly find myself curious. I was so hungry earlier I didn't get to take a good look at the people around me, but I'm thinking I might be in for a surprise.
Back at home, every time I have friends coming over and it's their first time in Florida, they almost always marvel at how everyone everywhere seems dressed in shorts and flip-flops. It's possible Wyomites have something similar going on, and it's my turn to experience a bit of culture shock.
Honestly, what little I know about Wyoming can be pretty much summed up with three things: eight months of snow, more cattle than humans, and "Cowboy State". It's not much, obviously, but when the sound of footsteps reaches my ears, I can't help but wait with bated breath for a living and breathing cliché to walk past me. I'm thinking leather jacket, a Stetson, and fringed boots. The whole Old Town Road she-bang, but instead I get...
Huh?
Bubble jacket. Jeans. Winter boots.
Nothing about that screams cowboy, but when the tall, dark-haired man glances my way-—
Holy cowabunga.
I suck my breath in as he comes closer, and even though I have this rule of not giving men the time of the day, I just can't help it. I take another look, and whoa.
I wasn't imagining anything, apparently.
The guy does resemble Keanu Reeves. The Matrix Keanu to be specific, and not John Wick Keanu. More clean-cut and shaven than scruffy and gritty. And dark eyes that are more piercing and soulful than fierce and violent.
It's Keanu who's not from the dark side, but...a lot more buffed. Like someone who grew up chopping firewood for fun or whatever it is that men in Wyoming do to have crazy-broad shoulders and muscles that gracefully ripple with every little move.
Gorgeous, in other words.
And because he's gorgeous, I know myself well enough to walk away. I don't look back and keep walking to my car even when I feel his gaze following my every move.
I bend down to unlock my rental, and I can still feel Wyoming Keanu staring at me. It's like he wants me to know he's looking. It's almost like he's checking me out and totally digging what he's seeing, but...
To borrow Colette's word: whatever.
I'm not a man-hater or anything, but I just don't see the point in lying to myself.
I used to be a hopeless romantic. But when every boy you like always ends up liking another girl, it can only happen so many times (five failed almost-relationships to be exact) until you realize you're pointlessly knocking your head against the wall. At the grand old age of nineteen, I've decided to accept the truth: romance just isn't in the books for someone like me, and while I'm not saying I don't see myself ever tying the knot, I also know that if I do walk down the aisle...
It won't be with someone who's dashing and handsome and makes my heart flutter.
If I do end up tacking a Mrs. to my name, I'd likely choose a guy whose company I enjoy.
A guy who'd appreciate me for what I am.
A guy...who I'm absolutely certain can be nowhere as hot as Keanu's doppelgänger here, which is why when I feel his gaze still piercing my back—-
Whatever.
I'm no A-list celebrity, but my face has been on a lot of websites lately. He's probably thinking he's seen me somewhere, and he'd be right. I know that sounds vain, but what would sound even vainer - as well as sillier and crazier - is to let myself think a guy like him has the hots for someone like me.
Like, seriously.
The past five years might've made me "famous", but just because my popularity points went up doesn't mean my IQ automatically has to drop. I'm still pragmatic as ever, so when I think about the possibility of Wyoming Keanu actually finding someone like me attractive...
WHATEVER.
The very idea is a clear waste of my time, and I shove the thought away as soon as I'm back behind the wheel of my rental.
With everything's that happened in the past week, my life is complicated as it is, and fantasizing about Wyoming Keanu will only make things worse. I came here for a reason, and—-
Oh my God, is it snowing?
I rub my eyes, hoping I'm just imagining things.
But I'm not.
Snow is suddenly falling hard and fast outside my window, and I feel my hand getting cold and clammy as I switch the ignition on. I've been driving since I was sixteen, but...
Don't panic!
It's just a little snow, and Google Maps did say my destination is just half an hour away. I'm probably just worrying over nothing.
Right?