Dear Upper East Side,
I’m writing this letter with sadness in my heart and hot fudge in my hair. I’ve spent the last two months scooping your ice cream and ringing up orders and now its time for me to go home. But even though I must leave, I wanted to spend a few final moments reflecting on our time together.
Like remember all those times when you came in with your Blackberry in one hand, your Bugaboo stroller in the other, and you didn’t even look up from your phone to place your order? I always respected you for your determination to complete your conversation, even if it sometimes meant you couldn’t make eye contact with me.
Or haha, I’m cracking up about that time I gave you two cents in change and you held your hand out waiting for it so you could put it back in your Prada wallet, which you shoved into your Fendi bag instead of the tip jar. That was a great time.
Oh wait, an even better memory is the time you got your toddler an ice cream cone and the precocious little thing dumped it all on the floor and, instead of offering to help pick it up, you demanded a a new ice cream at no extra charge. And even though there was a line in front of you, I admired you for teaching your child resilience by cutting the entire line so your baby could have their second ice cream immediately.
I know this letter is supposed to be full of good times and laughs but I really need to take this moment to apologize for asking you to repeat your order twice. It was completely my fault that after working an eight-hour shift; I couldn’t remember exactly which yogurt you wanted in which size after you rattled them off to me. So I totally appreciate that after I asked you to repeat the order, you spoke incredibly slowly as if I had the IQ of a sugar cone.
But back to the good times. Like remember that one time you had a last-minute impromptu birthday party in the store and you totally forget to tell anyone that worked there? That was a great surprise and it was even more fun when you spent the entire time complaining because we couldn’t give you personal attention. Our ice-cream-scooper-party-
planner-waitress-nanny was out that day and I have to thank for your understanding.
And it was totally reasonable that you didn’t leave any kind of tip. The eye contact we made when I was on my hands and knees wiping slices of melting ice cream cake off the floor was tip enough.
I really hope your son had a wonderful birthday because the celebration continued long after you left. We got to get the broom, the mop, and every other cleaning product out in order to clean up after your party. I wish more parents had your appreciation of suspense and gratitude. I knew that when you said, “your store is completely disorganized and unable to put on a party,” you really meant thank you.
Even though I’m having a wonderful time writing this letter, I really must get back to my internship. Internship? you might say. Yes, the days when I wasn’t scooping ice cream and pouring skim milk into your coffee, I was interning. I know, its crazy to think that underneath that ice-cream stained shirt, was a college student who was just working in the store for a little extra money.
You are probably wondering how I could be a college student and still have messed up your change that one time. But don’t feel bad. After all, once I put on that highly attractive ice cream uniform I only existed to listen to you complain about your frozen yogurt melting too fast. Ice cream melting when its hot out. It’s completely my fault and I take full responsibility. I only hope that one day, twenty years from now, when those precious little babies you brought into the store are working their summer jobs, wherever that might be, someone treats them with the same respect you gave me.
P.S. I might have underestimated the calories in the frozen yogurt. Whoops.
Dear Upper East Side,