Whatever happened to class?

I love novels set before the industrial era.

I love to read about Victorians, pioneers, Canadians and vampires.

You wouldn't think those groups have much in common, but oh, they do.

They've all got class.

They don't curse or talk back; they wear long hems and high necklines; they believe in playing outside instead of watching television; and the only vice they have is (maybe) playing cards or dueling for honor. (Sure, vampires are usually murdering fiends, but not the ones I like to read about. Not the protagonists.)

Not. Like. Now.

Maybe I've spent too much time with Anne of Green Gables, the Forsytes, Jo's Boys, the Dashwoods and the Cullens'. (Now that I read that list, maybe I need to spend more time reading fiction for adults.) But I find an era that values modesty, decency and manners refreshing.

So when I'm in my car and I see Monster Truck Guy flip Cadillac Grandma the bird, I want to stop him and shout, in my best shocked tone: "Edward Ferras would NEVER do that!" Usually, that's followed by, "Don't you have a mother?" but that's a different blog entry.

When teenage girls pass me on the street with skirts up to here and necklines down to there, I want to ask them to save something for later, because if you give it all up now you'll have nothing to hold back; and remind them of how Anne made a daisy chain necklace so she'd feel less naked when her gown dipped below her collarbone.

I even find myself wincing at the overly grotesque lyrics of some rap songs, and flipping to the Michael Buble/Marc Broussard playlist on my iPod. After all, I can just feel Jo (March) Baher's disappointed eyes on me when I lend my mind to bitches, pimps and hos. That's valuable brain space, after all.

Does that make me old? Old fashioned? Hopelessly out of date?

Maybe.

But I think it also makes me a pretty nice gal. One who would look good in an era where hats are in style and shock her knitting group by saying, "Oh, darn!"

(That's not to say that I don't shock my husband by littering the floor with F-bombs when I'm feeling saucy. But once again, another story for another blog.)