They had old-wave “perfect” bodies (that word in quotes because who really gave a shit about that anymore?…except the Arcadia Squad), even when their children were but months old in their strollers, because they had time to go to Pilates classes and work out in their state-of-the-art home gym.
Normally, I would not be judgy about this.
To each their own.
I wouldn’t turn my nose up at a rich husband, designer bags or a home gym either.
However, they were so aggressively snooty, dismissive and entitled, I got judgy about it.
And I knew the instant I clapped eyes on her she was precisely what I thought she was.
She then set out to prove it.
“Thanks so much,” she said, reaching for the cake. “I’ll catch you later to pay the remainder.”
Catch me later?
I lived north of downtown. She lived twenty minutes away from me and five minutes away from Scottsdale.
We did not run in the same circles, attend the same cocktail parties, belong to the same gym or shop at the same grocery store.
If I handed over that cake, I’d never hear from her again.
So I twisted away, taking the cake with me.
I would not start by apologizing, I would not.
I did not.
“As explained when you ordered, and as is noted clearly on my website,” I said thinly, “the remainder of the payment is expected on delivery. I accept cash, Venmo, Zelle, and I have Zettle and can take credit cards right here. However, there’s a three percent extra fee for Zettle.”
“I’ve got twenty kids showing up here in twenty minutes,” she shared with me.
Then it would have been good to have the cash on hand when you opened the door, woman, Logic said.
“Whatever your choice, it won’t take but a couple of minutes,” I said.
She reached for the cake again, and I took a step back.
“Really,” she said tightly, “with this display, are you suggesting I’m not good for it?”
“I communicate my policies clearly for a reason, and you signed off on them when you contracted for this cake.”
“I’m running behind,” she replied.
“I can imagine that’s stressful, but it isn’t helping matters to launch an argument you aren’t going to win,” I noted.
“This is unbelievable,” she whispered irately.
“I don’t understand how, since I explained the process and you signed off on it.”
“If you keep this up, I can promise you, you won’t get a good review on Yelp,” she threatened.
“You know, I can reply to those. I also have pictures and videos of the cake”—I jerked my head toward the Jeep—“and a witness who will state it was delivered on time.”
But now she was looking beyond me, and I knew what she was seeing because her mouth had dropped open and her nipples were now poking at her tight, Lululemon track top.
I sighed.
