What does it mean to be sophisticated? The first person who comes to my mind is James Bond, with his tuxedo and inevitable martini — of course, shaken, not stirred.
I don’t remember precisely why this came up in a conversation with my young adult children, but I remember telling them firmly, “I’m sophisticated.”
They burst into laughter. “You, Mom? You’re not sophisticated!”
As you might guess, this irked me, to the point I’m still obsessing about it today. But then I looked down at my ratty T-shirt and mom jeans — my normal at-home attire.
I realized that my kids just didn’t grasp the concept, at least as I see it.
In their unsophisticated minds, it meant to be dressed in designer clothing that didn’t come from the outlet mall, and to jet off to Gstaad to go skiing on a moment’s notice. (Of course, they have no idea where Gstaad is.)
It means to be rich, with a lavish lifestyle filled with backyard swimming pools, private chefs, elegant parties, private jets and heavy gold jewelry.
But I’ve known people who do live like that who aren’t sophisticated at all because they are ignorant about the world. They exist in their own little bubbles of privilege, surrounded by equally clueless acolytes who hang on their every word, in the hope that some of that largesse will fall their way.
Now, the Merriam-Webster dictionary describes the word sophisticated as “having a refined knowledge of the ways of the world cultivated especially through wide experience.”
Gee, I have that. I know which fork to use when I go to a fancy restaurant, although admittedly I hardly ever do, since I can only go when someone else is paying.
I know how to use that weird little contraption to snare cooked snail shells in a French casserole, so you can dig the innards out of them. (Maybe one of you smarty pants can tell me what it’s called.) I learned to do this in high school, when our French teacher drove us 30 miles to the only French restaurant in Utah to experience true Gallic culture. I also learned that coffee was supposed to be consumed after dinner — not during — which rocked the entire world I knew.
On a later occasion, I ate snail soup in Jemaa El Fnaa square in Marrakesh, Morocco, though I’m not sure that makes me sophisticated. You’re probably making a retching sound in your throat right now, but it actually was quite tasty. I even had seconds.
The dictionary also defines sophistication as “devoid of grossness,” which some people might say is belied by the snail soup.
I also used to have nice table manners, but then I became a newspaper reporter. Forty years of eating dinner at my desk, hunched over my computer finishing stories on deadline, scooping food into my mouth with one hand and interviewing people on the phone with the other, destroyed any dining etiquette I ever had.
Now, my table manners are so bad that, when we go out to eat, my kids often tell me, “Mom, we can’t take you anywhere,” when I drop my food somewhere inappropriate.
There was a time in my life, before I became a newspaper reporter, when I worked in the entertainment industry and wore beautiful silk dresses, high heels and makeup every day. I had my hair done in Beverly Hills. And then I entered the poorly paid world of newspaper journalism, and started buying my clothes at thrift shops. And wearing flat shoes that wouldn’t bother me when I was covering a brush fire. Makeup? Ha. Don’t get me started. On the rare occasions when I wore lipstick to the newsroom, colleagues would ask me if I had a job interview.
I never regretted this move — it’s the reason I’m writing to you right now. I traded money and class for the chance to inform people about things they needed to know. OK, and to sometimes ride on fire trucks.
The small amount of disposable income I scrape up goes for budget travel, as cheaply as possible. It’s hard to look elegant when you’re wearing plus size cargo shorts and sneakers.
When you look elegant and sophisticated, people definitely treat you better everywhere you go. You project an aura of confidence to which everyone responds.
Not so much when you’re wearing faded jeans from Wal-Mart and you need a haircut. But, hey, I know I’m sophisticated — even though I don’t like martinis. I just keep it a secret.