Single-Wider in Westlake
I think its time to start cataloguing my adventures in Westlake. As a girl who grew up in a single-wide amongst the ferns of western Washington, the fact that I live in Westlake is, at best, laughable. In my neighborhood, the street names are of the likes of “Governors Hill Drive” (which I cant help but pronouncing as ‘Guv-nah’), “Righteous Leader Circle” and “I have more Money than you Boulevard”. The closest bar is an elitist golfer hangout named “The Owners Club”, the gas stations close at 5pm and there are jewelry stores and custom boutiques on every corner.
I suppose I should preface this rant by saying I do not judge any of you who reside in the sparkly water-consuming hills of Westlake…unless, of course, you wear too much pink terrycloth or walk around with a slue of Bluetooth-enabled devices wired to various body parts.
Perhaps it was the wife-beater tank top or the worn-out jeans….or maybe it’s the lack of a Mercedes emblem on the front of my car, but I actually had a Westlake Starbucks employee belittle my entire existence this morning. While I tend to shy away from entering any major corporate-run establishment, my neck of the woods is all about being hand-fed by the Man, so I’m stuck with Starbucks. After squeezing my pickup truck in between a Porsche 911 and some type of Audi SUV, I snagged my place in the mile-long line–right behind 7 women in matching rhinestoned Lycra (obviously some sort of morning soccer-mom jogging club), next to a bunch of business casual clad men with fluffy hair, and just in front of a couple discussing which vacation home they should use for Labor Day weekend.
Fifteen minutes of listening to inane coffee orders such as “Triple non-fat extra-foam one-splenda half-pump caramel latte steamed to 190 degrees please”, and it looked like I was finally next in line. Just when I opened my mouth to say my favorite two words (“Double Americano”), the Suave-thick-glasses-wearing Indie kid behind the counter blatantly looks OVER my head (he actually had to stand up onto his tip toes and tilt his head to the left to see around me) and asks the couple behind me, “What can I get for you two?”
The diamond-sheathed woman hussies up to the counter and starts listing out all the specifics of her drink (something about soy, cocoa, and an empty, unfulfilled life). I’m no push over, so I tactfully interrupt her and politely say, “I’ve been waiting for 20 minutes.”
By the look on her face, you would have thought I just threw up on her.
It was like a scene from Tombstone for a minute- the Indie kid, the woman, and myself. Nervous looks and frightened glares bouncing between the three of us, trying to guess who would snap first. Finally the Indie kid steps up the plate and says to me, “I’m sorry. I saw you, but I just didn’t think you were anybody.”
“What? You didn’t think I was anybody?”
“Yeah,” he said, as if I just asked the most ridiculous question on earth. “You didn’t look like anybody special.”
I mulled it over for a millisecond, and decided the kid had a point. I was a simple girl with a simple drink- and they simply didn’t cater to that demographic. So I laughed at him (and pointed, because pointing and laughing is my favorite pastime) and walked out, confident and proud that I had self-alienated myself from the larger crowd of people in Westlake. And, even though I thought about ramming the front of my truck into someone’s BMW, I honestly wasn’t too upset.
I believe I will just start telling people I live in Oak Hill. Close enough, right?