Are you two together?

In lines at pastry shops around the world—my body, my opinion.

I decided to stop eating refined sugar in the summer of 2001. I’d just turned 34 and was hovering somewhere in the vicinity of 300 pounds. To prepare for the final quit, I organized a ceremonial tour of my favorite sweet spots in Paris.

I was standing in line at a bakery I loved, on Boulevard Saint Germain, when I noticed a cute guy next to me. I was wearing a flower tunic I’d just bought in LA. I always shopped before I traveled — as if new clothes helped me to feel less fat. At 300 pounds, nothing helps.

When it was my turn, the lady at the counter looked at both of us and said in a high pitch voice, “Vous êtes ensembles?” Essentially, “Are you two together?”

The cute guy took a look at me, scanned me briefly. I sucked my stomach in — as if that would make a difference.

“No-0000,” he said, with a look of disgust on his face.

“Deux croissants et deux éclairs, s’il vous plaît,” I said, allowing the full shame of the moment to creep into my voice as I placed my order. My body and self-esteem collapsed as I waited. I found a bench to down all four pastries in one sitting.

What was meant to be a celebration of my freedom from sugar had become a shaming episode, followed by the drowning of my feelings of sadness and pissed-off-ness for this not-thoughtful and cruel stranger. The pastries did their job; I stopped feeling all together.

Fast forward to 2017 and 160 pounds lighter — wearing size 6 jeans — waiting in line at the La Brea Bakery in Los Angeles; super cute guy standing next to me.

The lady at the counter looked at me and addressed both of us.

 “Are you two together?”

I smiled at the déjà vu.

The guy checked me out, scanned me up and down, paused around my boobs with a hungry look on his face; not even discreetly. Wearing a simple T-shirt, tucked into your jeans is a luxury only the thins could afford.

 “Not yet,” he said, kind of proud of himself.

I ordered a whole grain loaf and some olive tapenade.

You’d think his comment would have felt better than in the French episode.

Okay, yes, it felt a little better in the moment. 

But it didn’t take long to realize these two responses were the same. In both cases, I let some guy who didn’t know me whatsoever, dictate how I should feel about myself. Fuck that!

The next time some woman at some counter in some city says, “Are you two together?” I will check out the guy, decide if I want anything to do with him, and answer first. If it happens again, I will be glad that he enjoyed what he saw and expressed so, and I will chuckle internally, knowing what it took for me to look good with a simple white T tucked into my tight jeans.