"Kiss me goodbye and write me while I'm gone...goodbye, My Sweetheart- hello, Medford"...wait, that doesn't rhyme...stupid Johnny Wright...

So I'm 3 weeks away from the big move. A lot of my friends and associates are graduating from Boston University in a week or so (I work out at the medical campus), and they're headed to residencies and practices in California, Seattle, Vegas, Hawaii, Arizona, and for some unfortunate reason, Mississippi. Having moved across the country myself twice, I know what a hassle it can be. That's all the more reason I shouldn't feel too bad about my own pending move at the end of the month- from Somerville, MA to Medford, MA. Mapquest tells me that's a whopping 2.79 miles.

The short geographical distance aside, the two places couldn't be any more different. I currently live in a quiet enough area, but it has a palpable "it has seen better days" quality to it. Having grown up in New Hampshire, I was surrounded by cookie-cutter upper middle class families- each with a swingset in each backyard and a Volvo (or, so help me, a Saab) in each driveway. In the "Orange Line" end of Somerville, though, there's a chipped, sun-bleached plastic Nativity scene (in a turned-on-its-edge bathtub, of course) in each yard and a primer-gray Ford Aerostar van in each driveway.

My new place is right next to the Tuft's campus, and I have yet to see the Virgin Mary in a plastic bathtub. All of the houses are perfectly painted and the yards neatly maintained. Instead of AMC Gremlins and 1980's-era station wagons with garbage bags and duct tape replacing windows, there are brand new PT Cruisers and MiniCoopers parked on every tree-lined street. Instead of liquor stores, check-cashing places and run-down Brazilian eateries, the new neighborhood has overpriced children's clothing boutiques, an arthouse movie theater and (I couldn't be more excited) a new Mr. Crepe.

Riding the T each morning from my current neighborhood, I'm constantly reminded of the apparent class difference between my neighbors and myself. I'm wearing a starched, pressed pink shirt and tie (french cuffs, of course, with matching pink cufflinks). The guy next to me is wearing drywall-stained coveralls. I'm wearing perfectly polished Cole Haan dress shoes. The guy next to me is wearing 10-year old Carhartt shitkickers, with stains that match those on the aforementioned coveralls. I have slung over my shoulder a black man-purse with gay pride buttons on it. The guy next to me has a beat-up cooler with a series of peeling Construction Workers' Union pride stickers on it. I'm reading a 200-year old snooty French (translated, of course) novel. The guy next to me is staring staring blankly at his hands.

I feel like such an elitist for noticing these things. It's not like I'm the CFO of a major downtown corporation pulling in six figures. I'm an administrative-type at a university. The funny thing is that this depressed-looking dude in the splotchy coveralls is probably making more money than me- he is Union, after all. The "class" difference is still there, though. I always feel out of place there- the laborers and women in the "Merry Maids" uniforms always seem to be looking askance at me, as if they want to ask, "excuse me, sir- are you lost?"

When I take the Red Line out to Davis Square (where my new place is), it's a complete 180. Every guy on the train is either wearing a Harvard or Tufts sweatshirt, or a shirt and tie just like mine. There are Cole Haan dress shoes everywhere, and I can't turn around without getting lightly bumped with the man-purse slung over the shoulder of the dude next to me. Everyone's reading snooty novels, and there isn't a single "Plumbers' Union Local 312" sticker in sight. I'm home!

So am I a total snob for noticing these things? I can't help but be guilty when I feel awkward sitting next to a guy who makes his living cleaning toilets, and conversely, feel perfectly comfortable with the middle-management guy in the Brooks Brothers shirt.

My conclusion at the end of this longer than average post? I'm a stuck-up elitist who understands the importance of a perfectly chosen tie-clip, and who'd rather be seen reading Faulkner on the T than be seen looking disinterestedly at the Metro's sudoku puzzle.

Yeah, I may be a bastard, but that embarrassing self realization will be quickly quashed the day after I move in and bring my copy of "As I Lay Dying" to Mr. Crepe, following a big screen viewing of an obscure German film. What do you think- should I go with strawberries or Nutella?