You are the Stradivarius of women—the elegant, perfectly shaped embodiment of high culture. Your tastes are so discriminating and refined, you can tell what sort of fish the caviar came from without even asking. Your outer beauty suggests Helen of Troy; your heroic heart recalls Joan of Arc. It is not unreasonable to suspect that you are a higher life form. You’re so good, all other girls hate you for it. This includes me.
You are world-class classy. Top of the line. State of the art. Cream of the crop. Composed, reserved, refined, streamlined, intelligent, wise, gracious, charming, and benevolent. You would make a great diplomat or judge because you’re so powerfully dignified, even slobs tuck in their shirts and stop chewing with their mouths open when you walk by.
As feminine as a perfectly crafted champagne glass and as perfectly poised as a ballerina, you simply refuse to stoop to the level of the lowlifes and shit-talkers. In fact, you’re even offended that I used the word “shit” there, so…I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to offend. Dammit, now I feel trashy.
Like your namesake, your behavior is mostly spotless and virginal. You avoid foul language and lewd imagery. You don’t talk behind other people’s backs—unless they start talking behind your back. That’s when your inner alley cat comes out, claws ready to rip their eyes out. But for the most part, you’re perfectly presentable and every parent in the world would be proud to have your son date you—except for Jeff’s parents, but I swear I won’t tell anyone why.
Have you ever gotten caught in a rainstorm wearing makeup? It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, your eyeliner and mascara start running down your face, making you look like some corpse-paint-wearing Goth wannabe who got lost on her way to Death Night at the local dance club. So, OK, most of the time you’re just a normal pretty girl wearing a tasteful amount of makeup. But every so often, you look like a shock rocker playing to a bar full of alienated youth. And it’s usually when you drink too much.
Which Gemini am I talking to here—the classy one or the trashy one? Have you ever seen Highlights for Children magazine at the dentist’s office? There’s a running cartoon featuring twin brothers named Goofus and Gallant. Goofus is a rude slob who’s always getting into trouble. Gallant is clean, polite, and always brushes his teeth and does his homework on time. You are both Goofus and Gallant in one trashy/classy package.
Look, you’re not a nun—but then again, you’re not a prostitute, either. Mostly you walk the straight and narrow…on weekdays at least, because you have a job to perform and bills to pay. But when the weekend comes around, your Inner Kardashian busts out of your shell and starts twerking inappropriately in the checkout line at Walmart.
OK, this is where we start crossing the tracks over to the bad side of town. It’s not that you’ve had too many sex partners…but you have. It’s not that you drink and smoke too much…but you do. It’s not that you have dumb tattoos…it’s that you have too many dumb tattoos. It’s not that you talk like a sailor…it’s that you’re so foul-mouthed, even sailors are offended. But otherwise you’re a sweet and cute girl. You really are. I swear.
With the right lighting, you don’t look trashy at all. Unfortunately, the “right lighting” means nothing brighter than a night light. It’s not that you’re promiscuous; it’s just that you’ve had at least a year’s worth of one-night stands. You’re kind to strangers, contribute to charities, and even know who Beethoven was, but none of this is quite enough to overcome the fact that you own one of those hats that hold the beer can that you can drink through a plastic tube—and you’ve used it. More than once.
A little makeup is fine, but when you have to wear a backpack to carry it all, you’re probably laying on the mascara a little too thick. Your idea of classy is to get your name written in rhinestones on the back of your stonewashed denim jacket. You’re proud that you have two pairs of UGG boots—one for menial labor, the other for “special occasions.” Not that you asked, but it’d be nice if you took a shower every once in a while. And a little less perfume…please? I hate having to open windows every time you visit.
Remember the time you told everyone on Facebook about the girl who has herpes? How about the time you thought it was appropriate to wear a fishnet bodysuit to a wedding? Or the time you wore cheerleader’s outfit to a baptism and brought an entire biker gang as your “date”? No? Don’t remember any of it? You were probably too drunk.
You are so loud, you frighten dogs and children. You’re so trashy, you start huge barroom brawls and then steal whiskey from behind the bar when the bartender has to intervene. But not to worry—everyone agrees that as soon as you get off parole, you’re going to get your life on track.